Wand Cores
by Lydia-kitten
Summary: Harry Potter, weathered wizarding warrior in his mid-twenties, finds himself in 1940. Albus is coming up with a theory, and an adolescent Tom Riddle, torn between feeling threatened and piqued, acquires a controversial mentor. Hallows, spell-making, horror, politics and witty banter, served with a Grindledore sidedish. Slow and slightly disturbing TR/HP. First chapters re-polished.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Tom Riddle aren't mine. If they were... Well, let's not linger on that.

A/N: This is somewhat AU. In this version of Riddle's childhood, he was adopted by a muggle at a very young age. I'm making this change because I want to create a fairly redeemable Riddle, and therefore I want to give him a character background that is suited to the plot arc I have in mind.

Also, this will eventually be slash. Very eventually. I like my stories slow and realistic. But yeah, SLASH means a man with a man, in case any of you have managed to lurk on without finding out. And I mean together. Beware.

There will be some form of time-travel involved. I KNOW it's a cliche, but hell, even Rowling uses it to pull off the PoA plot. So don't groan when I send Harry back in time, I promise that the actual plot devices I will be using after that point are fairly original.

**ALSO, THIS IS IMPORTANT**: This story will be written entirely in first person PoV narration, but with interchangeable narrators. When I write as Tom, my language will inevitably be purple, pompous, arrogant and overly complicated. **He is not meant to be likeable yet; he is still an arrogant little shit. **Because that's how I imagine Tom talks to himself. **This is NOT how the whole story will be written, so bear with me.**

* * *

Chapter 1

Tom's PoV

_Who am I?_

_Mmmm. I am not sure I know where to start, to be honest; I can't even claim to be human with as much certainty as I'd like to. As for my name, Tom Marvolo Riddle, it does in no way define me, and neither does my age. I am not sure why my identity would matter anyway, for, after all, the only thing that matters is what I will achieve. We are what we can do._

_One day you **will** know me, but under a different name. I will change the world._

* * *

I sit by the windowsill, silent, with my back resting against the chipped wooden frame, and a thick, heavy tome cracked open on my lap, exuding the deeply pleasant smell of aging paper and worn leather binding. It is not a tremendously interesting read, to be frank; Grullius Woodhive's dreadful writing style rubs me the wrong way, especially his horrendous abuse of punctuation, and the subject of his studies itself, that is, multitarget-curse-breaking in the 15th century, albeit passably interesting, is far from being at the top of my learning priorities, as are, for example, said multitarget curses themselves.

And yet, trapped in this nauseating, repulsively quiet Muggle neighbourghood, and forced, since I am but thirteen as of yet, to live with my atrocious step-father (whom, in my mind, I never refer to as anything but _the man_) when not attending Hogwarts, I have very little to do, and even less that could be considered an acceptably worthy pursuit for one such as me. Besides, when I retreat to the soundless darkness of the room, he tends to give up on his disgusting attempts to play family with me, and, thank all that there is, he leaves me to my own instruments for a comfortable while, to enjoy my solitary activities and the best of companies. My own self.

I would have long disposed of him, and have long thought about the vast variety of possible ways -skinning curse, poison, Unforgivables, lasting blood-boiling curse, hexed artifacts- to accomplish it, if it were not for the fact that, after murdering him, I would most likely find myself forced to either return to that accursed orphanage, or be put under the care of some other appalling Muggle, neither of which options would likely constitute any improvement upon my present predicament. See, this pitiable, sebaceous, sleazy creature that I am woefully forced to tolerate and co-exist with came to adopt me when I was but six years old or so, and has since that time spent endless hours trying to form some manner of a filial bond between the two of us.

I cannot even find the words to adequately describe the depth of my loathing for him, his fathomless, dark, consuming hatred that grips my insides tightly and barbarically every time I lay eyes on him, his vile form, his jaundiced eyes, or hear his pathetic, unctuous voice calling out to me.

"Tom... You've been here for seven years. I know you've had a bad childhood, but it's not my fault. When will you accept that I'm your father now?"

_Never._

_I have no family._

_I need no family._

Besides, I honestly doubt that, deep inside his wretched soul, the affection he holds for me is entirely of the innocuous kind, for as young as I am, I am disillusioned in matters of human relationships, and wise enough to know with absolute, unshakeable certainty that people do not offer one another their devotion unless they are to receive something they desire in return. Furthermore, I am only too sharply aware of my own attractiveness and charm, and how it has drawn and keeps drawing people to me, eager to bask in the light of boundless charisma, to acquire me for themselves. So it comes as no surprise that he, too, would wish to place his oleagenous hands on me, to press his lips against my cheek, to enjoy my company, the sebaceous bastard, the lowly, despicable worm.

But whatever it is he believes he shall gain from me, he shall not, for I feel not even the slightest, most minute shard of gratitude for my farce of an adoption, for his parody of a fatherly love, and for whatever he seems to think he has provided for me and should be thanked for. The sole reason I am temporarily willing to tolerate his gut-clenchingly sickening, repelling presence in my life, is so that I may live with a relative amount of peace and quite, and devote myself fully into my magical studies, submerge myself into the Dark Arts and the Magicks of War, ever bringing closer the fulfillment of my long-term desires and ambitions. By the end of my stay at the orphanage, naturally, even as young as I had been at the time, the other children, miserable and misfortunate little weepers, had also learned to stay away from me and not disturb me unless I so desired, for they had witnessed well the vicious and cruel consequences of irritating me. And yet, a house were one can be truly alone is still a better alternative to a crumbling, weathered mess of an estate, filled to the brim with hapless, noisy, irksome little humans getting in one's way all the time.

With a soft and elegant gesture, I bring a long, pallid finger upwards and wet it ever so slightly against my lips, using the humidity so that I may more smoothly turn the worn pages of my current read.

"Tom! Dinner is ready," his smarmy voice reaches my unfortunate ears, interrupting my blissful studying, and once again I fill the insides of my physical body filling to the brim with explosive, red-hot choler and malignity, the waves of wrath causing my nerves to clench and my teeth to clash together violently. That grotesque, worthless waste of organic tissue and oxygen, I think to myself vexedly; lonely and piteous as he was he thought perhaps that he could acquaint himself with and adopt a young child, and condition it into accepting his foul affection, his emetic goodnight kisses, his greasy fingers petting it.

_You chose the wrong child._

_I wish you dead._

* * *

Eventually, knowing that if I try to resist any longer he will simply keep intruding my pleasant solitude with an increasing amount of auditory pollution, I glide down the stairs and into the tasteless, kitsch dining room, where he sits before a rectangular table, serving what he apparently deems to be food.

"Are you hungry, my boy?"

"I am not your _boy_."

"Not this again, Tom! What have I done to deserve this? I have given you all I could. When will you start accepting that I..."

"That you are my father? You are not. Do not try to be funny, Hornby, thinking I'd ever accept any connection to a muggle, for I most certainly shall not. Not now, or ever, and no matter what course of action you choose, we will never be family, for I have no want or need of one. Especially not one like you."

And yet, for all the times I'd made my position perfectly clear, I am perfectly aware that he will simply not give up on trying to establish some manner of bond between the two of us, his pitiful efforts and ensuing arguments making my life insufferable. On occasion, even, our arguments turn intense, and even violent; and it is then that I ardently curse my fate, for I know that if I do not manage to adequately restrain my ire and unleash my power upon him, I shall most likely end up calling Aurors to my location, and for all the magical talent and skill I hold, I am likely too young to take down a unit of Aurors.

_As of yet._

_All in due time._

It is funny, however, in a most unamusing, ironic manner, that our neighbours all seem to be so deeply fond of me, so eager to ask him concerning my well-being and my academic progress, blissfully unaware of the deeply twisted and disgusting nature of our unstable co-existence, that has so far only relied on the fact that I am not willing to risk a sentence in Azkaban. It is funny indeed how, when I curve my rosy lips upwards in a sickly sweet smile and cast down the sky-blue eyes I hold shyly, spewing a few words of courtesy and making use of my most admirable and extraordinary acting skills, I can so easily manipulate the hearts of others, causing them to see naught in me but a most excellent son.

_"What a lovely boy! Sweet, quiet, handsome and polite! You must be very proud of your son. I hear he is doing great in school, as well. What an exceptional child..."_

I used to hope that when I reach Secondary school I shall have more time for myself, and away from all these repugnant, meaningless people, but I had not, at the time, been aware of the fact that my magical abilities when not an isolated case, but then, instead, there was an entire educational system created to cater to the needs of magical children, and thus when I got my Hogwarts letter, if anything, things got worse, it one can think of something worse than this dull, repetitive, disgusting lifestyle. He wanted to know nothing of wizards, spells and unicorns, he said that all he cared about was my well-being, and that he didn't deem me ready to live alone for such long intervals of time, for I am violent and ill-behaved. I believe he was simply angry that I was to be gone away for a few months a year, to a place evidently preferable, and that he couldn't prevent it.

And unfortunately, up to now, I still need to go back to him every summer, back to his greasy arms and his excruciating desire for some manner of proximity, for this damned Ministry will not emancipate an individual as young as I.

_The Ministry of Magic... It needs a radical change, and I will make sure such a change occurs, one day._

_No one will be judged by their age, their wealth, their connections. Only one criterion is natural, just, irrefutable; and it is power._

* * *

Before I return to my room, he suggests that we visit his sisters, but I find myself being less and less motivated to attend places in which I will not be alone or with people of my own choice, even if it concerns my personal health and wellbeing, even if, for the sake of pretense and to maintain my unblemished profile, I probably should. No need is stronger than the one to flee this mass of giggles and lipids and non-functioning braincells, soaked in sweat and make-up and noisome aromas, wrapped up tightly in a revolting sense of fashion. "_Sugar-coated faecal matter_", to quote an aquaintance of mine, Abraxas Malfoy. I find it a great description, very fitting to most of the human race nowadays.

_Curses. I wish the pathetic, gossiping cows that you call sisters dead, as I wish you dead, and this neighborhood, and everyone that soils my life with their unworthy presence._

Actually, I might just be ever so slightly exaggerating. I do not loathe every single human being just because they happen to be a human being, and I have to confess there is a lamentably small number of people, magical ones obviously, that I do find relatively interesting and even, at times, when I am truly desperate for company, appealing. Woeful how their number can be counted with the fingers of one hand, and how they all seem to be cursed with this pitiful desire to be lead and manipulated; a desire I could quite easily take advantage of, though, and that, I believe, I am _meant _to take advantage of.

Oddly enough and despite their own blatant flaws, some of these people agree with me in a great range of subjects, and most of them experience similar feelings towards the rest of the human beings (or at least a vast percentage of it) as I do. It's comforting sometimes to know that I am not the only being undergoing this tsunami of ill-natured, venomous feelings, especially towards muggles. Perhaps it is a common point of interest that I should consider cultivating.

And yet even when in Hogwarts, I cannot bring myself to experience even the slightest enjoyment in exchanging pleasantries with my fellow Slytherins, or in attending my lessons, as my disappointment in the magical world, that I once believe would provide me with the excitement and challenge and pleasure my life lacked, grows stronger by the day, the wizards surrounding me proving to be barely any less wretched and contemptible than the Muggles of my neighborhood.

Hogwarts, the place I once hoped I'd discover some form of personal peace it; even there I feel nothing anymore.

Hogwarts...

_A change there is needed, as well. A change in staff, in curicculum, in standards of entry; Hogwarts shapes the magical youth of tomorrow, and it needs to teach them strenght, self-reliance, natural hierarchy, war. It needs to teach these blabbering little idiots, these silly bumblebees, that the world is cruel, that muggles are envious and unfogiving, and that sooner or later, it will be either us or them._

* * *

As I struggle to maintain my reason, sitting alone in my own little world, the man comes. He comes and pets my head, blemishing my hair with his oil, and looks at me with his dull, deformed, humid eyes. He offers me a soapy, suggestive smile and reveals his repugnant teeth. His monstrosity is so offensive that I feel helpless before this hideous slime. I want to kill him, rip him open and tear him apart and reduce him to bleeding pieces of organic matter, but I just can't seem to find the strength to move my numb limbs. I want to cast a blood-boiling curse, and a slicing one, and ten Avada Kedavras. Quite curiously I can't decide whether the fact I let him live is a good thing, a positive fruit of the effort to keep myself sane, or if it's a pathetic outcome of some form of cowardice.

"Are you all right Tom? You've been in there reading this book for hours."

Now once again I see him before me, as I have been everyday during years, lying pitiful and pathetic in a pool of bodily fluids, whimpering and begging, trembling and snivelling. I don't know if it's once again just my vitriolic fantasies and virulent wishes or if this time I really lost control and assaulted him. I don't care to know. I hold onto my slaughterous, sanguinary fantasies involving him in order to preserve my sanity, for they keep me from committing murder too soon, something which would put my plans in danger. Without them I would not be able to hang on.

And therefore I just step forward and kick him in the stomach as hard as I can, hearing the soggy sound of his intenstines being damaged. I laugh at the blood dripping through his lips. And I kick again and again until I feel sure that his venter is full of shapeless, crimson pulp.

I break his fingers one by one, these fingers he wanted to caress me and grab me and feel me with. I step violently on his face and break his huge crooked nose. The sound of its cracking adds into my bliss and I kneel and slash his nauseating visage with my nails, the one he wanted me to kiss, and I tear bands of skin off, and I rip his throat open, and I castrate him as I squeeze the genitalia under my boots, and I dig his flesh up until I reach his skeleton. I don't know whether I want this to be real or not. It scares me, how unmerciful and sick I am, and I don't know if I want it to be real, the fact that I really lost control, I really let it all loose, I really did it all at last.

_Of course I didn't do it, silly me._

I am still here, alone in my room struggling with myself, willingly hallucinating, offering myself comforting visions of vengeance against this nauseating world.

And as the days, the weeks, the years, flow in a torturingly slow rythme, I lose everything even remotely positive I ever had inside me, and receive nothing in return. Even when I am in a good mood, amongst pleasant wizards, participating in activities I thought I enjoyed, lessons, Quidditch, _I am void_. There is only disgust and repulsion left inside me for those that live and breathe around me.

But do not misunderstand. I love life deeply, and have very much to live for, since I am bursting with plans, with beauteous ambitions, with grandiose dreams and dark desires; especially ever since I discovered myself to be the biological heir of the admirable Salazar Slytherin, whose will echoes through the ages and flows into me, filling pleasantly the emptiness inside my chest. I simply tire, I presume, from the abominable waiting, knowing full well that I may not, for various practical reasons, set the majority of my brilliant plans in motion as of yet, being but a young adolescent, and yet feeling the darkest, angriest depths of my psyche thoroughly unwilling to withstand this charade anymore, to be bored to death.

_This third year, it better be interesting. O__r else I will have to make it so, _I muse inwardly as I walk with slow, deliberate steps towards the large mirror, fixing my black, glossy hair into pristine, soigné waves, and ascertaining that my Slytherin necktie is perfectly, tastefully tied.

_I definitely will; I grow dreadfully weary._

* * *

Dumbledore's Pov

I always enjoy it when a brand new year begins. Fawkes does, too, and he is currently chirping happily, and a minute later he is singing something somewhat silly but rather pleasant. Only two clouds are casting shadows into my otherwise fairly unperturbed mind. Gellert, and the increasing number of attacks against muggles and halfbloods linked to him in central Europe, and the young Slytherin student, Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle, who seems to be falling further and further into something cruel and dark with every passing year. He believes that no one notices, and I suppose he is largely right; most teachers and students are very fond of him, and find him very admirable. And even I, who can tell that there's something off, that he is treading down a thorny path, have little time or opportunity to do much about it, unfortunately. What a waste of talent, and what a waste of beauty, too.

I bite a chunk off a chocolate frog, and find myself unintentionally humming Bach's first Cello Suite. Tom, I think, needs someone to show him how truly young and incomplete he still is, how foolish, and how life and magic are so much more complex than he yet understands. But it cannot be me, for fate has already assigned me a Dark Lord, and it is my former lover, Gellert.

Soon enough, it seems, I will have to face him. Fair's fair. After all, I had a hand in allowing the making of him.

Truly, however, I do hope someone else but me notices that there's something somewhat wrong with Tom, before the young boy is beyond redemption. Someone strong, preferably, and intelligent, too. Also wise. With a good understanding of the kid's childhood. Better even a Legillimens.

Yes, I know. I will probably have to take care of this growing problem myself, too, in the end.

Oh well...

I stare at a piece of formal parchement lying boringly on my desk, and sigh.

_"Dear Professor Dumbledore_

_We kindly remind you that a general outline of the teaching material for next year's Seventh Year Students is required for delivery..."_

All work and no play...


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Nothing but our soul is ever truly ours... - Some person over a very cheesy instagram picture, probably.

A/N: This will be a chapter narrated by Harry. I tried to stick as close to his canon personality, or a least how I perceive it would have evolved under the circumstances in which I had him spend his early adulthood.

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence and adultery. Bad language. Thank you for your understanding.

* * *

Chapter 2

Potter's PoV

_Who am I? I am not a man. Harry Potter is an idea; an idea of jutsice, freedom, goodness, purity, hope. It resonates within the hearts of the lost and the wretched, the ones that have been mocked or wronged. Harry Potter is a scar on my forehead, and it is an entire world's scar; it is the ghost of wars past, and the fear of wars future._

_I have long since given up my right to live as any other man; to enjoy a family, a household, a dog in the front yard. I never chose to bear this burden, but since it chose me..._

_I cannot let them down. I am tired, but I have no right to be. For I represent an idea, and it is an idea they need. I must fight on. And on, and on, and on, and on..._

_The war never seems to end._

I sit beside the hospital bed, my heart heavy but empty, looking down at the fleshy mess that is supposed to be Ron. It doesn't even remotely look like Ron, I note to myself. The skin-flaying curse has ravaged most of his body, and a large portion of his face, leaving him raw and bleeding. The healers said it was a miracle he'd survived, really, since the blood loss alone could have taken out even a sturdier man. Lately St Mungo's smells like death only too often.

And there's, of course, a reason behind this wave of rising violene.

The Ministry, in their hurry to take out any remaining Death Eaters had had them executed swiftly, without trials, brutally. What a stupid bloody move. Now their friends, family, lovers, all scared for their own lives and outraged, have turned into a vengeful enemy population. 'Mione and I had tried again and again to talk of this with both the Minister and the Order, but in the hateful rage of victory, our voices of logic had been muffled and shoved aside.

Without Dumbledore and Snape, the so-called Light side has found its morals deteriorating fast. And I... Well I find it increasingly hard to identify with them anymore, for it is purely their fault that a war that should have ended with Voldemort's death is still boiling underneath the surface of wizarding society.

And Ron...

Ron has been ambushed by remnant Death Eaters. The ginger is an Auror, and very apt in dueling, but no man can possibly be vigilant at all times, at all moments. Caught unprepared, he had all the rage and fear of the dark wizards unleashed upon him like a biblical plague. Poor Ron. And yet I can't even manage to feel the necessary sadness anymore. My eyes are dry, after long years of suffering, and my mind is blank. It's not that I don't love Ron, my Ron, who's been my friend ever since I was a clueless child, who's even accepted my recent divorce with Ginny. It's just that I've become jaded, my heart worn with war and loss.

Looking down at his savaged form, I feel weary, old, spent. I've lost so much and gained so little; I've given up my entire life, sacrificed it at the altar of my Saviour role, only to get pain and regret in return. I had accepted to be their sacrificial offering, their hero and leader, their idol and symbol and lamb to the slaughter. And so I'd taken all the weight of the war onto my shoulders, all the responsibility, training hard day and night to be up to the expectations of the hopeless masses.

They needed me, they still need me, to become a new Merlin, and although I have no desire for power, no thirst for knowledge, I forced myself into the role, I have dedicated my life to becoming strong enough to bear the burden of my lightning shaped scar. To what avail?

* * *

Hermione walks into the room. Her eyes are swollen from the tears that she has shed, but they are not humid anymore. They've become dry, just like mine. I am surprised to find her here, I must confess, after that terrible fight that two have had. I wouldn't have blamed her if she didn't shown up. She did, after all, catch Ron, her husband, thrusting into Gabrielle Delacour a few days ago, and had been horribly shaken to witness the last pillar supporting her fragile heart crumbling under the weight of a busty blonde.

Her once bright and curious features are now lined and hard, slashed by repeated losses. She seemes honestly worried about Ron though, and I admire the strenght of her love for him, and her forgiveness. By now we know he's probably going to make it, of course, but we also know that children will cry at his sight, that he'll cover all of his house's mirrors, that he'll be ashamed to walk outside, to flirt with Rosmerta. I can see Hermione's trembling lower lip and it silently says _'They've made a monster out of you my love, and I am too tired to cheer you up, I have no more strenght to guide us'_.

It also says _'I had hoped for a life better than that. I forgive you and I forgive everyone because I know that it's the pain that made us make all these mistakes, my love'_.

It is all conveyed silently, but I can hear it all. Oh yes, we had hoped for a better life. That we had, Hermione my dearest friend, I think bitterly, a weary smile forming on my face. But these idiots, drunk on a victory that wasn't even theirs, a victory that I'd given more blood than anyone else to achieve, they've destroyed everything. They tuned the pureblood society into an animal in distress, a beast scared for its life and fighting with rage to protect its very existence._ Can't we all live in peace_? I used to ask myself years ago. Now I no longer hope.

* * *

I walk out of St Mungo's and into a bakery, getting myself a cinammon muffin. The baker is a wizard, and he stares at me with open adoration and a note of pity, like most of them usually do. He refuses my money, and I shove them up his sleeve. There's a little table with a few chairs around, so I sit and munch the pain away.

A little girl walks up to me, with innocent aqua eyes drilling holes into my forehead, and an endearing blush spreading on her cheeks. She asks me, in her melodic voice, that has not yet been corrupted by the ugliness of this world, if I am Harry Potter.

I nod.

She gives me her muffin and smiles, and tells me how her mother told her all about how awesome I am, her eyes glittering and her lashes batting. Once upon a time I used to envy parents, and greatly desired to experienced the joys of fatherhood myself, but that was before Ginny's miscarriage, her depression, Molly's death, the divorce. That was when I still thought we'd live happily ever after.

The little girl asks to see my wand, because her mother had told her all about how famous that wand was. And she had told her all about how I had tricked You-Know-Who in believing he was in control of it. I try to smile at her naive fascination, but my muscles produce a spasm of irony. I explain to her I no longer use a wand, because my wandless magic is more powerful, and then begin eating her muffin, the one she'd so sweetly offered. I walk away.

My pace fast and uniform, I seek to take shelter in the one place that calms me down.

The place where I find myself amongst friends, loved ones, mentors, parents, classmates.

* * *

The graveyard is cold and wet, with weatherworn crosses sprouting right and left, with little statues of Cherubim, old and discoloured, with withered flowers and rotting offerings. This playground of decay and death is no longer a place of mourning for me, but a place of recollection. I sit near Snape's grave, feeling closer to the man than I'd ever been. I now understand him, his vitriolic psyche and his deeply-rooted cynicism, his inner strenght formed by years of loneliness and guilt. And I regret his death more than anyone's, somehow, for now I see that it was him I was becoming, him I could relate with.

Severus, who in spite of having lost everything, had still been willing to fight, to carry the burden of his given role, to find bravoury somewhere inside his blackened heart. A flashback of a recent event burst into my mind. A woman related to the Parkinson family, begging, with an infant crying in her arms, imploring them to believe that, in spite of her family relations, she'd never followed Voldemort's cause, she'd never done anything wrong, anything criminal.

I knew she wasn't lying, but she got executed anyway, for the real war was over and my voice was no longer needed. It was the Ministry's voice that mattered now. And from within me a scream said that they were just making themselves more enemies, they were just planting the seeds for a new war, but it never reached the ears of the wizarding state. I was a soldier, not a politician, and my work was finished here.

Sometimes I have to fight the impulse to take the whole Ministry down, the Aurors, the Wizengamot, everyone. I know I could if I decided to, I am certainly powerful enough; but I just feel there would be no point in doing something as rash. If the Ministry came crushing down, chaos would instantly rule and a civil war would break out upon the collapse of the old structures of power, where various circles of influence would try and impose their own regime. Once it had dawned to me that probably this is why exceedingly powerful wizards often succumb to the desire to become dictators.

They simply want to mould society according to their ideals, because they feel that these power-starved and petty wizards that rule us are too useless to bring about any improvement in people's lives. But I do not share that desire.

Oh, I'd make a good dictator. I am known to be ethical, caring, powerful and popular, and yet I would never fall into that trap, and as a much as I long to destroy the Ministry's regime and replace it with something better, I'll not. I'll always keep on gritting my teeth and letting society take its chosen course, as much as I resent this new era of Light state totalitarianism.

I don't know if it's lack of ambition on my part, admirable selflessness, or simply weariness. I suspect the latter.

_Because hell, I am so, so tired._

Around me I see no Death Eater graves. Death Eaters get no eternal peace, no mourning. As much as they and their maniacal Lord have ruined my life, this absence still disturbs me. It disturbs me how the winners write history, now and always. And how when the second world war had ended, no mother dared to mourn her nazi son, no wife her nazi husband, how no one dared to cry for the loss of these human lives, wrong or immoral or cruel as they might have been. Perhaps I have become wise, like Dumbledore once was, and I no longer hate my enemies, but instead pity them, and mourn them as if they were my own.

Dumbledore, that manipulative geezer, who was the only one to ever reveal his pain at the loss of Grindelwald, who was the only one to dig into Voldemort's soul and see him for the lost, pathetic, poisened child he was. For all his mind games, he saw people as people. I miss Albus painfully, his gentle power and his tender wisdom, in spite of the fact that only recently did I realise how truly great a man he was, how profoundly superior in his realisation that what matters in life is love and fun. I have a life full of glory, full of magical greatness, yet without fun, without tenderness, it is all void and senseless. If I had a child, I think I'd call him Albus Severus Potter.

But I am already in my mid-twenties now, and still hopelessly alone, so I don't think I'll ever have children.

* * *

I lay on the wet grass and call forth my Patronus, made out of my childhood in Hogwards, out of the Weasly twins' laughter, now forever faded, out of Ginny's freckles, Ron's constantly dirty nose and Hermione's constantly raised finger, out of our Marauders' map, and our every-flavoured beans. The stag comes to me and his nose touches me gently. I am so experienced with this spell, so well-trained a wizard, that my stag is no longer an ethereal apparation, but a real, corporeal, material stag full of light and laughter.

I caress it and it kneels next to me. _I miss you Dad_, I think, and then I try not to think of that again, for I've always been an orphan and I have no excuse to still be aching for my parents.

Infinitely tired, I fall asleep, and I dream of Albus, my spiritual father, my guide. He embraces me, and I tell him that I've lost the will to live, and that I hate being so powerful when there is nothing I can rectify with that power.

"Albus" I murmur, "Is this what I offered my soul for?". _If so_, I add in my head, _it's unfair, and I've been tricked by destiny, and laughed upon by the Gods. Mocked, and used, and pranked_. _It's not fair. It's not bloody fair._

"You can't always set things right, my boy." He replies softly, in his fatherly manner.

"Why?" I ask, in all honesty, and for the first time in years, my eyes are humid, and they tingle with unshed tears.

"Because fate is a great wheel, and sometimes it has been set in motion far before we could have done anything to prevent it. This is not a fairy tale. Heroes do not are not always rewarded with the endings they deserve," Comes his gentle reply, and his washed-out eyes twinkle with affection.

"A wheel? That's your answer? Well, fuck this wheel" I say, my voice trembling with rage and regret, and my fist tightens on Albus's chest, as he pulls me closer. "I'll go back and change everything. How about that? It should be doable. And if it isn't, well, I'm Harry freaking Potter, I'm not to do the undoable."

"Going back is a very tricky thing, my boy," Albus tells me, his voice alarmed and paternalising. "Time-travel has never been a hard feat for the most skilled amongst us. Many time-turners circulate in the black market, and more even are in the Ministry's possession. And yet, no one tries to rectify their lives by means of playing with fate, Harry. No one dares. Do you not wonder why?"

"It's dangerous. It's Hubris. It's immoral. It's selfish. I know. But, Albus, if I did it for the ones I love, and not for myself, if I did it to prevent a war, to save both my allies and my enemies, would it not be the right thing to do?" I say, and I pin my eyes on him. My voice sounds cracked and desperate.

His eyes twinkle again, and somehow this makes me uneasy. He smiles, a smile timeless, wise and mysterious.  
"If these are your reasons, then yes, it would be the right thing to do. Is this really the course of action you wish to follow, Harry?" He asks, and he doesan't look like Albus anymore, but like something ancient and eternal, terrible and beautiful.

"Yes," I whisper hoarsely, for I am scared, unsure of my answer, confused. I have no idea what this question means, and why this feels less and less like a dream, more and more like a trial. But I manage to say yes, and then there is light.

_Not a dream... Then what..?_

* * *

After the light there is grass, and I smell the soil's humidity and the wetness of leaves. I'm in a graveyard. The same graveyard, only much smaller, with many less dead, much less sadness. Instantly, I feel a surge of magic and I know that I am no longer in my rightful time. For a split second my mind is filled with panic and fear, but I brush it aside, regain my calm and control over my magic; I am a weatherworn, hardened warrior, and if this is part of the war I've chosen to fight, so be it.

This what I think to myself as I get up, my body aching as if my muschles move for the first time after aeons of immobility and sleep. I walk towards a very fresh grave and I read "Alexander Lovegood, 1885-1940". I deduce thus that I am in 1940, and try hard to understand why that year would be any special.

_1940?_

_How did I end up here?_

_And more importantly, why?_

If I was meant to prevent the Grindenwald war, it would already be a tad too late, for by now that war was already ready to take gigantic dimensions. No, I can't have been meant to stop the magic or muggle wars of the early forties, that would make the future too different, that is too big a mission for me to carry through with. Who knows how the world might evolve without WWII; and who's to say it would not be for the worst if the world does not learn that lesson.

And all of a sudden I think of Voldemort.

His first Horcrux was created in the beginning of his sixth year in Hogwards, if I recall. And he first commited murder in his fifth, it occurs to me, as the image of Myrtle's annoying and infatuated ghost flashes through my memory, and I feel a surge of anger at all the injustice done to Hagrid. But in my time, Hagrid is dead, and in this one, he is merely a child, so my anger is soothed, and as the word child echoes in my mind, I realise the purpose of 1940. In 1940, Voldemort was not Voldemort yet.

He already was an exceptionally intelligent and studious child, a teenager with dark ambitions surely, but neither a murderer nor a Dark Lord. My hero complex kicks in, and I think to myself that maybe I could still in some way aid him, get him off that road he's on, prevent him from triggering that horrible future I had to endure.

Maybe I could still save him, and if I can't, I'll just have to kill him.

...

_And also figure out how in Merlin's beard I tore through the fabric of time and space without a spell or artifact._


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of Rowling's fantasies. Unfortunately.

A/N: This chapters starts as a Tom's PoV and finishes as a Harry's PoV. Also, I have Harry be able to apparate into Hogwarts. I know that is not normally possible, but I will explain inside the fic my reasons as to why Harry is actually able to do that.

Furthermore, someone inquired as to why the language and vocabulary was so different between chapters 1 and 2. The thing is, nowhere in this piece do I write as myself or as an objective narrator. I try to use the language I imagine the characters to use. Thus Riddle's PoV is purple, filled with rare adjectives and complex sentences, conceited and dark. Harry's is simpler, casual, with shorter sentences, but bitter and forcefully mature. None of these two styles of writing represents how I actually talk, thank heaven.

By the way, I spawn quite a few typos around, and please forgive me for that, but I have no beta and can't bother typo-chasing.

And, may I add, please leave a review if it's not too hard.

* * *

Chapter 3

Tom's PoV

"Psssst Riddle? Am I supposed to stir this clockwise or anti-clockwise?" some unimportant idiot asks, and I recognise him as a classmate. Gryffindor, half-blood, as daft and two short planks and annoyingly friendly; as dispensable as they possibly get, I think to myself, eyeing tiredly his messy, unkempt hair and his goofy smile.

_Please, dip your head into the cauldron and choke on the lizard eyes floating there, subsequently losing your senses and falling into the boiling conconction, thus meeting a horrible and unfortunate death._

"Clockwise, Pattington. Three times, I believe. You should pay attention to the classes though, for if you fall behind now, it will be difficult to catch up next year," I reply with cool politeness, and a soft albeit somewhat superior smile, after which he flashes a blinding grin at me, giving me a thumbs up; I lift an eyebrow, almost amused with his unexplainable excitement, and I can almost feel the pimpled girl sitting next to him swoon.

Potions class, with Horace Slughorn. And what a disgusting, pathetic excuse of a Slytherin Horace is, always sucking up to anyone even remotely famous, always seeking even the tiniest bit of attention. I am made deeply nauseous when this malformed, greasy, smarmy bastard tries so hard to pretend that it was him who took me under his wing and made what I am, and thus share into my academic glory, and leach on my successes. What a loathesome, parasitic creature.

It is really such a shame that this slug-like individual is actually one of the few wizards to hold knowledge of the Ancient Arts, the Blood Ritals and the Soul Magicks. Or at least he is so here in Hogwarts, where every spell not related to flowers and happiness is considered forbidden, corruptive and maybe even the devil incarnate. These narrow-minded, scared fools; these weak, pitiful rabbits, afraid of anything even remotely powerful, how meaningless and boring is their syllabus, how full of absences and lies.

History of Magic with Binns is even worse than Potions, and it pains me to say so, because the concept alone is hard for my mind to bear. And with Binns, this sorry idiot that knows only how to memorise meaningless sentences and regurgitate them at back at me, I can't even fantasize of some horrific, brutal, vengeful murder, for this moron is already dead, Merlin curse his annoying, lingering soul, and has been for aeons. Next time my sensitive ear cavities and delicate cochlea are polluted by these moving talks on the pricelessness of the human spirit, I swear to Morgana I am going to ask out loud if there is any sensible wizard that believes Binns' spirit is worth more than a couple of sickles.

_Is this seriously the quality of teaching staff that a renowned institution like Hogwarts deserves? Its founders are surely twitching, wherever their bones may lay._

Time flows, and the lecture, the oral vomit coming out of Binns' diaphanous head, spoken in such an unreally homogeneous, lulling manner, is forcing my mind to close down. I honestly feel like I lose a few braincells every time I suffer my way thourgh this malfunctional ghost's attempts at teaching a class, and soon I might stop attending them simply out of fear of slowly losing my intellect and becoming some sort of living-dead creature, guided by the mind-wrecking pitch of Binns' voice.

When I first came to the castle, I was so eager to learn, so full of enthusiasm, ambitions, hopes, dreams and all those other accessories that the young tend to carry around with them at all times. Now, though I am still very young, I already find anything that Hogwards might be able to teach me to be beneath me, and I already spend my time visualising epic travels, mystical explorations and exciting discoveries, lusting after the most ancient and coveted secrets of the Egyptians, the Mayans, the Hindu.

I envision myself different, greater, carrying all the dark and precious wisdom of my collective heritage, all the power that men and seprents alike have ever discovered and then hidden, immortal and merciless, imposing my own ideas, my beautiful ideas, upon this disgusting, decaying, decadent world.

Am I tiring you with my wet dreams? You must admit they are magnificent. And yet, I know I have to stay here until my NEWTs are done with, because I can't help but believe that the knowledge this castle holds can not be as limited and useless as everyone tries to convince us of. How could the home of Salazar Slytherin, this great and terrible, fearsome and awe-aspiring wizard, be such a simple, dull, dreary place, when his magnificent oeuvre must certainly be hidden somewhere between these dirty walls?

* * *

I walk down the moving stairs, thourgh the golden corridor, towards the library, with various shady thoughts and twisting and dancing in my mind, and the world around me is of no importance to me, for it is mostly populated by creatures that can offer me nothing more than the entertainment I'd experience by hurting them. And yet sometimes this castle is not as uneventful as I accuse it of being, for halfway thourgh the corridor I feel a sudden surge of foreign magic, like an aura of raw power, pointing me towards a strange direction.

_An odd magical trail, fresh and intense, that feels... green._

_Green?_

I follow this magical trail, of a signature previously unknown to me, and hear my heartbeat quicken at the feeling of such lovely, strong, violent, captivating magic, that envelopes me in its imposing, magestic nature.

Soon enough, I realise that I am standing outside the Transfiguration class, led by that extraordinairy power, just as a young wizard, that had obviously been conversing with that mistrusting, batty fool, Albus, walks out of it. The man is in his twenties, very pleasing to the eye, very confident in his posture, and he nails his glimmering green eyes onto me, with something akin to recognition, or shock, or hatred, his magic swirling around him wildly, almost knocking me off my feet.

The moment lasts but a single second, and still I feel completely overwhelmed. My body, for that surreal second, appears to be strangely immobilised by the encounter. And then the wizard walks away with swift, strong and yet leisurely steps, and I find myself staring at the Transfigurations' Master, who looks at me kindly but with no affection, these discomforting eyes of his twinkling in their usual eerie way.

"Anything wrong, Tom, my boy?" he asks me, and his voice is emetic, because I hate its dishonest sweetness, its threatening friendliness, its caring tone.

"No, I was on my way to the library, Sir. I was merely impressed by the man that just walked out. His posture was unusually interesting. Is he a former student of yours?" I ask, and I do not bother trying to sound adorable, shy or endearing, because with this red-haired lunatic named, Morgause forbid, Dumbledore, it somehow never works. His instincts when it comes to issuing judgment upon people are perhaps one of the few things I've ever envied in another wizard.

"I am glad you find him to be of interest. He will be my new teaching assistant," he replies cheerily. So cheerily that I begin to feel endangered on a personal level, for reasons I am not certain I can yet describe.

_Assistant? Why would the bothersome, aging coot be needing an assistant? _

_Who is this man?_

I can only nod. That sharp green glare still flashes through my mind, and the thought slowly forming in my head reads: this year might not be as dull after all.

* * *

Harry's PoV

The graveyard is obviously not the right place to set my mission in motion, and I immediately apparate into Hogwarts. Even as I do it, I feel a smug but bitter smile curving my lips, because one has to admit that apparating into Hogwards is not a small feat. Let me tell you about how I happened to become able to achieve this.

After Hogwards was destroyed, along with very large portions of our lives, in the end of my seventh year, rebuilding the actual structure was the easiest part of the ordeal. The challenging part, that pretty much drained mine and Minerva's magic dry, was resetting the wards and healing the magical core of the castle. And doing that while fighting everyday, still trying to finish off this damned war; while still losing our own, and fearing for our lives. During the long months that this collective effort required, I came to study these wards, with 'Mione's help, harder than I even thought possible.

In the end, my understanding of these spells became so profound, that I found myself able to slowly recast them, with full knowledge of their ancient structure and their amazing complexity. During that process, I discovered the few miniscule flaws in the castle's warding, that I have thanked Merlin time after time for the fact that Voldemort never took notice of them (I don't even want to imagine how things might have been had been able to bypass the castle's wards as I now do), and thus eventually learned how to make my way into Hogwarts without tiring myself.

Years later, I occasionally still felt warm inside about this personal success, and it was one of the few recent memories of mine that are not drenched in blood, and filled with loss and destruction.

* * *

I apparate near the Transfiguration classroom, knowing that Albus had been the one to teach this class when Tom Riddle was still, more or less, a human being. I try to recall the instance within his pensieve when I got a glimpse of that era, and I think I remember Albus being a middle-aged redhead. I open the door and come face to face with said middle-aged redhead, which I consider a fortunate stroke of luck, since it is exactly him that I need. This younger Dumbledore's face seems, strangely enough, as calm and wise as I remember it before he passed away, and he draws his wand slowly and stares at me. I feel a rush of affection course thourgh my heart, for I held great love for this old fool, and grieved savagely after his death. I unwillingly smile, and feel my eyes becoming humid.

_Albus, I have missed you. You manipulative, flawed, stupid, lovely man. _

_The emptiness left behind by the absence of your guidance was never properly replaced._

"You apparated. I felt it," he states warily, sounding understandably concerned, and somewhat confused by my unprovoked expression of relief at his sight. His voice is not hostile, and I find myself thankful for Albus' flawless instinct, his penetrating eyes that can read right thourgh other people's intentions. I am sure he can sense I mean him no harm, so I smile at him.

_Gods, Albus! It is so good to see you again!_

"I did. I have come to hold a very detailed knowledge of the arcane magic that holds the Hogwarts wards together," I reply, my facial muscles nearly spasming as they try to hold back my laughter of joy at meeting my beloved Headmaster again, even through this strange course of events. "I am a time-traveler," I add.

His wise blue gaze appears to weigh me for a few seconds. Thankfully, I seem to be deemed satisfactory, for the tension around his jaw is somewhat eased.

"I see. Well, I think, my boy, that we should have a seat and talk about this. Would like some sweets?" he says, his wand still raised but his eyes sparkling with interest as I take a sweet and start chewing. He also looks a bit fascinated, in an admiring way, and I am not overly surprised. It is not unusual for wizards that are exceptionally bright and sensitive to be able to sense another wizard's magical power when said power is very strong. He shows me a chair, and sits next to me. It all feels very surreal, and my emotions are hard to control. I move in closer and hug him, and as my head rests for even a few seconds on his chest, I feel considerably less lost. He blushes, and I instantly recall that he is homosexual, but I am sure he will not missunderstand my gesture. I might still have felt some embarassment too, but it is a feeling that repeated exposure to war and splatter makes you completely forget about.

"We were close, where I came from. You were the closest thing I had to a father, in a way," I say calmly. He smiles at me, and I can see his smile is genuine, for he puts his wand down and back into his colourful robes. His eyes are more trusting now, and he is ready to hear the story.

"Legillimens me, it will save us time. And in case you still have any doubts, I am willing to drink that disgusting concoction called Veritaserum, as well. Cross that, actually, not invented yet..." I continue, and somehow I feel a weight being lifted off my shoulders, for it seems I will not have to be alone in this, and Dumbledore is the best ally I could have ever hoped for. He casts the spell, and I let him invade my mind without defenses. I show him bits and pieces of my childhood, my adventures in Hogwards, my early encounters with Voldemort, but mostly I show him the war, the death, the misery, the horror. I show him the destruction of the Horcruxes, the death of Severus, and even his own death. And then I guide him through the executions without trial, the pureblood uprisings, the civil war.

When he pulls back, Albus looks ten years older, and the lines on his face are hardened and strict. His eyes betray great sadness, and even greater understanding.

"I did not really wish to know of my death," he says before anything else, and pushes a sweet into his mouth. That I can understand.

"This will not be your death, because this future will never happen. I left everything that mattered to me behind just to make sure of that," I reply, and suddenly I feel a strange motivation, a passion even, burning in me, filling up the huge hole in my soul. I meant this words, I realise, with every fiber of my being, and my soul is pulsating with a will to live that I had not felt for a long time.

"Tom Riddle. I was afraid he would follow such a path. I cannot stop you if you have come to kill him," he says, and I can tell this last part is very hard for him to utter, for his voice cracks a bit, and his jaw clenches. I understand his difficulty fully, as Albus is never one to appreciate murder, and I clearly remember how he even congratulated me for sparing Peter Petigrew's disgusting life at the time. These visions of the future must have shaken him quite badly, and suddenly I feel guilty for plaguing him with my own pain and burden. I am sure, though, he will be relieved to find out he has successfully taught me to not hate.

"I do not intend to kill him, unless I have exhausted every other alternative. Instead, what I want is to guide him away from the path of his future choice," I tell Dumbledore softly, and his face is indeed illuminated at my words, and he looks emotionally moved, sensing that I really am his spiritual progeny. I feel the urge to embrace his again, but I don't. It would get awkward.

"Then I will help you the best I can, Harry," he eventually states, in a serious but cheery voice.

We start plotting a plan, and I find him to be very pleasant, very intelligent and very endearing. Since Tom Riddle needs to be within my reach, we conclude than I will have to find my way into Hogwarts. We eventually agree on him hiring me as a teaching assistant, which is not a common practice, but neither is it unheard of. Dumbledore seems very confident that Headmaster Dippet will agree to it (he agrees to anything, apparently), and we start making up a plausible backround story for my person.

The only thing we stick with is my name. This name, both my blessing and my curse, I cannot part with. Thus I remain Harry Potter, which I am glad about. Albus decides I should go talk to Headmaster Dippet as soon as possible, and I prepare to take my leave. It is then that I feel the slithery magic of Voldemort, in its first, simplest form, creeping through the corridors. Not Voldemort, I tell myself, just Tom Riddle, and I walk out of the Transfiguration class, expecting to come face to face with the boy, which I do.

_Green meets blue again, like that one time, in the Chamber of Secrets. _

_Ah, Tom Marvolo Riddle, you were fated to forever complicate my life, it seems._

Time appears to dillate for a few moments, allowing the brief and seemingly random encounter to feel intense, significant. I let my eyes dive into his forcefully, with meaning; I let him know that I do not mistake him for a normal student, an innocent little being walking happily across the halls. Maybe I even wish to intimidate him, but that cannot possibly be easy.

Riddle looks slightly mystified, and taken aback by the nature of the encounter, but he says nothing and neither does his pale face betray any particular emotion. I just take a good look at him, and then walk on.

_Know thy enemy._

_Or at least, know thy target._

For a brief moment I wonder if Tom Riddle has heard that very final part of the conversation, just before he entered the corridor. I find it very unlikely, for I would have felt him before had he been close enough, but even if he did catch onto the fact that me and Albus were making a story up from scratch, it doesn't actually matter. Sooner or later, the incredibly smart and curious boy will most probably end up looking into my past and finding out that all of it is just a rather shabby forgery. Sooner could not be much worse than later.

* * *

As I walk towards the Headmaster's tower, I bring into my mind the face of the young Riddle I've just seen. To my distrustful, weathered eyes, "manipulative deceiver" was written all over the beautiful young male, but certainly to others he doesn't appear that way. Still, that healthy dose of awe in his eyes confirmed what I had already hypothesised about. His admiration towards power will attract him to me like a moth to the flame.

Dippet turns out to be easier to convince than I could have ever hoped, as he is, exactly as Albus had told me, a clueless, commonplace wizard, trusting towards everyone and sympathetic to any young, studious wizard. I pull the orhpan card at first, to earn a look of boundless pity, and then I describe to him in detail my imaginary work with Egyptian transfiguration and the morphing of the magical cores in jade statuettes, under the famous Ginerva Weasley. Inwardly, I laugh at the use of her name, as I move on to describing my important paper on the Transfiguration of organic matter from Polish Dragons, which actually got me the Polish award for contribution to the research on Polish amphibians.

He fire-calls Dumbledore to confirm my backround, and Albus, the adorable old coot, just paints a brilliant picture of my humble beginnings, magnificent achievements and sparkling future. Twenty minutes later, papers are already being signed, and I can still hardly believe how easy that was. Dippet, in spite of his stupidity, has made a choice I greatly approve of.

He trusts Albus.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Rowling is more awesome than I could possibly be, even if I could just walk into Mordor and shoot lasers out of my eyes.

A/N: This chapter is pure Riddle, with only little more than a paragraph of Harry at the end. Some of you might wonder why someone as conceited and cynical as Tom Riddle might have been even the slightest bit impressed by his encounter with Potter. Well, it's exactly that. When a psychopath meets someone they feel in some way inferior to (something they rarely ever feel), it does provoke a strong response, generally. And of course, a lot of hatred. You can't write HPTR without hatred.

Thanks must be given to all my awesome reviewers. I am writing as fast as I can. My muse is on a spree. Forgive the typos, they are just the roadkill of my speed ride.

To Barranca: Dippett trusts Dumbledore because he is weak in character, I fully agree. The point is that, even if accidentally, he does chose to trust a very trustworthy wizard. My Albus is Rowling's Albus. He is the one who is fine with Minerva having given a 13-year old Hermione a time-turner, and who encourages the trio to save Sirius with it. He has teenagers face death yeah after year, even though he could have potentially prevented that most of the time. Dumbledore is, in canon, very open-minded actually, and fully trusts in the power of good people. As far as Tom goes... If you want to address whether he is an actual psychopath or not, I will address that issue myself in chapter 5 or 6. What I do believe though is that he has both experienced and caused a lot of pain and a lot of hatred in his life, and if there is something his receptors would be sensitive to, that could be pain and hatred. It is love or protectiveness, for example, that could be staring at him right in the face without him noticing. Also, I never actually say that Harry DID epxerience these feelings. I point out that Harry has been taught not to hate his enemies. This is only what Tom -thinks- he has perceived. It is his PoV, not mine. By the way, I love your reviews, they are inspiring.

* * *

Chapter 4

It is nighttime, and most other Slytherins are already sleeping, wasting their pathetic little lives in this meaningless horizontal position, and probably dreaming of threesomes and becoming the Minister of Magic, like most typical slitherers do. I am, of course, far past these petty fantasies, these cute little ambitions that their obnoxious, simple minds can come up with, and my spirit wanders in worlds better than this one, as I lovingly immerse myself into Elizieh Cropthorne's "Blood Magicks of the 15th century", 1751, one of the fifty original, hand-written copies. The delicious smell of weathered leather infiltrates my flaring nostrils and I feel aroused, knowing full well that this book is more precious than a room full of the fancy robes that these Slytherin brickheads own. And thus, while I wear second-hand rags that this vulgar and vainglorious Abraxas Malfoy sometimes winces at, the treasures that I am discovering are beyond his shiny knuts and galleons, beyond the paons at his mansion and his expensive ebony chest.

And indeed most of the Slytherins, Salazar bless them, cunning and crafty and connivy as they tend to be, these opportunists, they are beginning to sense something in me of greater value that their little toys, something that draws them to me like bees to honey.

First it was the females of course, who succumbed to my deceitful charisma, these sorry creatures that can be swayed by a charming handful of sugary words, their pitiful, naive hearts aching for beauty and kindness, throwing themselves at me to be manipulated. And the man of course, who, also swept by my natural gifts, pretends to be a father to me, tries everything in his power to achieve some manner of proximity, even knowing only too well his own hideousness and the aversion his bothersome advances cause.

Then it was the Slytherins in my year who realised how far from the typical know-it-all I really was, who caught onto my dark streak, my grand visions and my undeniable allure, and sensed a leader in me, these astute, shrewd little snakes.

Lately, even the Slytherins of years above my own come to me paying their silent respects to my ascencion to power, their eyes conveying a curiosity spiked with admiration.

_And soon, I know, it will be more than that, for they will fear me and love me, and tremble at my feet, offering me obedience, adoration, their wills, their hearts, their minds; these worms will call me "My Lord", and in my mind, I can already hear the sweet sound. _

_This will be my ultimate vengeance for all who ever called me a freak, for all who ever pointed their disgusting, flabby fingers at me, and judged me, for all who abandoned me into the world of Muggles, and the pain, and the ugliness._

Somehow, it's already morning, a part of the day I particularly despise, for it is then that Hogwarts becomes a revolting hive full of vociferous, turbulent, aggravating insects moving around without shape or structure, shoving breakfast down their throats and emitting irritating giggles. And yet today I am excited, and my heart is pounding fast, sending blood into my brilliant brain, while said organ is attempting to predict how exactly the upcoming Trasfiguration class will unroll itself.

That somewhat alarming, fairly handsome and certainly very powerful man, the _green man_ as I've baptised him inside my mind... I wonder if he will be there, and whether the meaning of that look of recognition is his eyes, that has been subtly haunting me, will be made clear to me, and justified. I can't help but experience the uncanny feeling that somehow this man is directly related to me, and there is something menacing and ominous about this premonition which I consistently have been trying to shake.

_The look in that man's eyes... It cannot have been a coincidence. Something tells me I shall meet him again very soon._

_His magic... it knew me. I am sure of it._

His tempestuous, swiring, sinister magic comes back to mind, and I quicken my pace as I walk towards the Transfiguration class, eager to come into contact with it again, in spite of the fact that, in the back of my head, the fact that the green man is closely associated to Albus, the one wizard that could somehow always see righ through my mask, is actually causing me to feel a little threatened and agitated.

* * *

As I approach the classroom, surely enough, the magic of the green man hits me in full force, and I cannot actually decide whether the feeling is unpleasant or not, for it closely resembles both drowning one's self and consuming great quantities of marijuana. The kids around me seem, and I am fairly sure they are, completely unaffected by the magic, which makes me want to laugh at how magically desensitised, daft, clueless these odious young creatures really are. Before I walk in, being cautious and vigilant as I am, I strenghten my Occlumentic wards, not only because I know that the barmy fool of a Transfiguration Master is a skilled Legillimens, but also because the presence of the greem man dictates the necessary precautions.

_The waves of his power clash against my shields, and I almost gasp at the intensity of the violent encounter. _

_To any outsider though, nothing has happened, and I am simply a student walking into a classroom._

The green man is standing behind Dumbledore's desk, at the teacher's right, rigid, serious and confident, and as the other students make their way into the class, I stare at him from my pristine desk in the front row.

He is young, but his face has a certain hardness to it, a bitterness of a man that has seen much horror, the lines around his mouth deep, his radiant eyes dark and examining. He bears quite a few scars, and I deduce he must be a wizard of many wars, despite his age, especially since more than a few of these marks are curse marks, as my careful eye can tell. His skin is rather pale, a heavy contrast with his dark, unkempt, rebellious coiff, and as my gaze travels around the strands falling by his forehead I notice a very peculiar cicatrix, that piques my interest to an even greater degree, due to its unheard of, perfectly geometric form.

A bizarre thought is nagging me, spawned by the admission of my undeniable physical resemblance to the green man. Is he a relative of mine? Is that why he seemed to recognise me? Is he here because of me? I cannot tell his exact age, because of how tired his face seems, but I do expect him to be around 28 or 29, which means that it is biologically possible for him to be my father, and immediately I become enraged with myself, for producing such moronic, pathetic thoughts.

_And yet a scenario has already unfolded in my mind, of how the green man, a teenage prodigy war mage, was forcefully parted with his flirt, before she could tell him that she was pregnant with their child, shamefully and out of wedlock; how she became the tragic target of the green man's enemies, and hit by a fatal but slow curse, she had no time to do anything but deliver me to the orphanage and die; and how he, years later, after returning from a magical war in China, or India, or Tibet, found out about his lost child and decided to approach his progeny discreetely and conclude whether the child was worthy for him to raise._

Even as these childish, nauseating thoughts spill into my mind like cancerous vomit, I feel ashamed of myself more deeply than ever in the last few years, for being an aspiring Dark Lord that still constructs wishful fairy-tales in their mind, and aches to learn of his parentage, a pathetic little boy with silly fantasies and delusions of grandeur. I grit my teeth, and feel my soul fill with repugnance and abbhorence and spite and scorn and venom towards everything and everyone, and I cannot really pinpoint why.

"Good morning children," the red-haired jester gleefully exclaims. "Today I will present to you my new assistant," he adds, and the green man makes a step forward, the eyes of all drilling holes into him in happy curiosity.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Harry Potter, and I am going to be helping professor Dumbledore both in teaching and his own personal research projects," the green man says, and now I know that his name is supposed to be Harry Potter, and somehow that really irritates me, because I find it entirely inappropriate for that intriguing, complex man. It is too simple, and dull, and homely, so I am nearly overwhelming with the certainty that "Harry Potter" is a fraud, for such an individual must certainly bear a name of greater aesthetic quality, like Demetrius Windcarrows or Astydamant Nox.

"Now students, I want you all, front to back, right to left, to stant up, present yourself with a few simple statements, for our Harry over here," Dumbledore adds, and he looks so happy that I want to send a gastroenterical disease his way, and then a few blood boiling curses. Being in the front row, I am the third to have to undergo this humiliation, but I quietly comply. In this classroom, Albus' one, I never pull out the orphan card, the poverty card or the model student one, for it would be a waste of my acting talents to perform in front of an unwilling audiance, and thus I reserve these acts for the ones that fall for them, that is, all other teachers.

"My name is Tom Riddle. I am a Slytherin, and I enjoy books, spellcraft and music. I have no parents, and no pets. I am fond of studying," I say in a flat voice, my eyes nailed onto the green man, watching for some sort of interesting reaction. And indeed there is one, because the young man, who so impassively listened to the first two kids and smiled gently at them, seems to be scrutinizing with great intensity me, taking me apart with his eyes, and on his lips there is a strange shadow of a smirk, clearly meant for me and me alone.

I feel a strange heat grow inside my chest, and oddly enough, I get an adrenaline rush out of nowhere. Maybe I sometimes tend to be a little too self-absorbed, and maybe often believe things to revolve around me, I will admit that; no shame in understanding one's own importance. But this time I am most fervently, passionately certain that this strange occurance has something to do with me in particular. I ponder upon that while the other kids, like empty, mechanical idiots, spill the names of their owls and loved ones.

Albus gives as a few absolutely ridiculous and nonsensical Transfiguration exercises to complete, and as usual, I am done with them in less than a dozen of shockingly boring minutes while wondering about the actual point in acquiring the skill of transfiguring pink tea kettles into cabbage-coloured pin cushions. And then something fairly unusual happens, for just as I am completing the last of my spells, that barmy teacher with his eternal smile asks us whether anyone is finished yet, knowing full well that no one but me could have manages to complete the tasks in just a few minutes. I do lift my hand, though, and he proceeds to pointing me joyously to the green man.

"All right, mister Riddle. I can see you are a talented young wizard. Instead of these... casual exercises, that clearly don't strain you at all, what do you say if... the two of us went to the neighbouring classroom, so we can advance a little faster with the syllabus?" that Harry individual tells me, his voice strong and factual, and somehow his suggestion feels threatening. And yet, I am so eager to break my endless boredom and the repetitive dullness of my current life, that I very quickly get up and approach the man, who has by then moved closer the the door.

* * *

We walk silently in the corridor and enter another classroom, that is now completely empty, while my mind races, examining the various possibilities on what is actually hapenning and why.

"Take a seat" he says. I am having a very hard time reading his face, and I loathe him for that, because I am only too used to treating people and their needs like the open books they so often are.

"Sir..." I begin saying in a soft voice, thinking to test the waters by asking whether we have ever met before, and mentioning the fact he looks familiar, which, of course, he doesn't. I am interrupted, which is yet another thing I usually cannot stand.

"You can call me Harry. Can you cast a corporeal Patronus charm?" he asks bluntly, and catches me completely off guard.

_Well, he wastes no time testing the waters, this man. What is he trying to accomplish?_

The list of things the green man does that I find absolutely outrageous seems to be growing fast, and I feel like a fool for having no answer ready. The Patronus charm, I have to admit, is probably the only charm in the book "130 defensive charms for the wizarding adventurer" by Evangelia Prince, 1928, that I have not yet managed to fully master, and the fact he asks about this particular charm makes me want to hit him.

_Could he possibly know this is the one defensive charm I cannot manage to cast with suitable success? Or is he making a guess, based on the fact that such an undeniably Light spell is generally tougher for Slytherins than for the rest of this school's students?_

"No." I finally say. I decide to be honest, for it might earn me the favour of this powerful wizard, who's magestic magical aura is still tingling my skin and quickening my breath. "I can discern that my silver smoke is trying to give itself the form of a snake, but somehow it dissipates before I actually manage," I add, trying to sound casual and very matter-of-factly.

"The patronus is a very special charm, and it doesn't only require skill. It requires being able to to tap into one's inner peace and happiness, as I am sure you know, mister Riddle," the man replies. I nod slowly, and his gaze locks into mine again, with no intention of retreating. "What do you think about, when you cast a Patronus?" he then inquires, and I want to give him various different replies such as _'Mind your own business' _or _'What are you trying to achieve?_'.

I also feel the irrepressible desire to rudely point out that the Patronus charm is not a Transfigurative spell, that it is part of the NEWT syllabus, and that his question is absolutely ridiculous, but I forcefully bite my forked tongue and just concoct a plausible, polite answer.

"I think of my academic successes," I finally state, and somehow the tone of my voice opely holds irritation, in spite of my generally awe-striking self-control.

"It is there that you are making your mistake, then. An academic success can evoke emotions of joy, and pride. But that's not what you need for this spell. You need to tap into moments of happiness, of peace of mind. When I first achieved a full-fledged Patronus, I was your age. I had thought of when I first found out I was a wizard. Why don't you try that?" the man tells me, and for the first time his expression towards me softens a bit, but I will not be fooled, for I can tell what his simplistic scheme is.

_He wants to indirectly let me know that he also grew up without knowledge of his wizarding nature, as to make me feel some sort of connection between us; how crafty, how subtle his manipulation._

Nonetheless, I do as he says, and I colourfully visualise my initial meeting with Humble-bore, where I was first told of Hogwarts and of wizardry and where I had the silly man to burn a cupboard in order to convince about the truth of his words. I cast the Patronus charm, but all that comes out of my wand is a shapeless puff of pathetic smoke, leaving me feeling equally ashamed and annoyed. Of course, I let none of these show, and I keep my fine feautures calm and empty, my eyes watching the failed spell as they would look at a wall.

"I know why you fail at this, mister Riddle. Because you take everything around you for granted. This amazing world of witchcraft and miracles, that took you into its arms and became your home, you are ungrateful towards it. Only when you realise what an extraordinairy gift, a true blessing you were offered that day, will the memory of that event become strong enough to support a Patronus charm," he reveals, and before I can even open my own mouth in polite protest, he dismisses me, for I will be late for my next class.

And I_ hate_ him for that, for criticizing me and judging me, and then having me go, whereas no one else in this school would ever dare call me something as vexing as "ungrateful", after all the respect I have earned.

Walking between the castle's grey walls, I repeat the encounter time after time inside my head, as if it has some huge, hidden significance that I have yet not uncovered. The kids around me are shouting and shaking, like enthusiastic, hyperventillating little worms in a rotten apple, and my reflections and speculations become increasingly disorderly. One thing that I can safely conclude though, is that the green man has spoken with Bumble-sore about my early years, for he seems to know that I grew up in a muggle surrounding, while I had personally stated only the fact I was an orphan, without actually specifying whether I had a muggle or wizarding upbringing. I try not to infer anything else, for I feel a streak of paranoia creeping into my mind, and consequently I get a headache.

* * *

Harry's PoV

I am not even sure how it went. I could argue it went disastrously bad, or unexpectedly good. All I know is that I will not be easy to even establish a basic channel communication with Riddle, for he is an insely secretive kid, full of arrogance and spite.

And yet, something about our interaction has me hoping that my approach was not erroneous after all, and that something might eventually come out of it. Inside that classroom, face to face with young Voldemort, the killer of my parents, friends, teachers and beloved headmaster, I could definitely not think as calmly as I would have liked. It is hard to avoid the easy solution of just taking a deep breath and casting a Avada Kedavra without warning, and yet I think I could not do it. Not because I haven't killed before, Merlin knows many Death Eaters have fallen by my hand, but because this young boy is thirteen, and no one can be guilty enough at thirteen.

_It is wrong to desire the violent, painful death of a 13 year old; but Merlin, how little the knowledge of right and wrong matters when you come face to face with the killer of all you ever held dear._

I walk to my living quarters, a small, naked room Dippett has provided for me. I light the small fireplace wandlessly and wordlessly, and sit on the bed. Suddenly I miss Hermione, would have known exactly was would be the right thing to do, athough she would have left it up to me to actually do it. And I miss Ron. My Ron, before the civil war and Gabrielle changed him into another man. And yet I wouldn' have wanted them here, either of them, for in the end I'd learned to walk alone, and fight alone.

They would be merely distractions to me now, and what I need is solitude and reflection. A gruesome image from the war suddenly explodes inside my head, with disembowled children and dismembered men groaning and screaming. I do not wince. It has been a long time since I last winced. Yet I still often avoid sleep, for it is there that these memories haunt me the most.

I pour myself a glass of firewhiskey and down it fast. This situation makes me feel uncomfortable, for the war I am familiar with is a war of fire and steel and Avadas, not a subtle war over a half-lost soul. I wonder whether I know what I am doing or not.

I hope I do.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: They are mine, all mine! Just kidding.

A/N: A very Potter chapter, this one will be, with only a little touch of Riddle in the beginning. I can't stop writing. My muse is on LSD and speed and cocaine all at once. My partner is beginning to get worried. Also, please give me reviews. So I can feel I am actually accomplishing something and not acting like a kid with autism, hehe.

To Lonny3: Your review made me piss myself laughing. I know exactly what you mean about older Harry fics where he is some sort of red-haired, silver-eyed wonder of nature, with awesome tattoos, leather pants and a pet phoenix or whatever. They make me cringe a bit, even the well-written ones. Also, I agree with you that in canon young Tom was not a seductive slytherin prince, but a quiet, hateful boy. Here, he is a bit of both.

To Lonny3 and Epitomizing Entropy: Thank you for your very flattering understanding as far as my typos go, as you've noted it's because I am on a inspiration spree, and if I brake to check, I might very possibly lose my touch.

To Barranca: When I read your reviews, my brain cells multiply.

* * *

Chapter 5

I lie in my bed, awake, thinking about the green man's irritating advice, and his insolent criticism, when it occurs to me that I can not really think of him as insolent, seeing as he is not a commonplace, petty creature, for whom it would be hubris to dare comment on my character, but someone who could actually be entitled to somewhat judge me, considering he is magically superior to me for the time being. My conclusion is, of course, not that I should pay heed to his vexing and enraging advice, but that I must become more powerful, as to make of him my inferior.

And yet, my mind trails back to when I first got my Hogwarts letter, and when Albus-Bulbous came to mine and the disgusting man's house, how ecstatic I was; and how scared, how truly pitiful the hideous, abhorrent creature that had been sheltering me seemed at the time.

Perhaps it is actually a stronger memory than I had felt it to be, and I muse upon my initial reaction to finding out that the ugly, plain muggle world was not the only one available to me. Of course, now I know that the wizarding society is neither as amazing nor as welcoming as I had pictured it out to be, and yet, compared to never having known anything but the colourless, oppressive, meaningless and dull life of a muggle...

Maybe I should occasionally feel lucky to be here, at Hogwarts, and not in the presence of the unintelligent, vile man that awaits me back home, I find myself thinking, and realise that the green man has made a point, and that his point has partially come across. Which of course only irritates me even further, for I hate being influenced in any way at all.

What does he want of me, that strange, powerful wizard that stands out like a fly in milk, whose existence stands above the rest of Hogward's mundane, tedious, vulgar routine, just like mine? Why did he choose to ask about the Patronus charm, when not even Dumbledore could have possibly known I had been experiencing difficulties with that particular spell, and when he was meant to show me advanced Transfigurative spells instead? Is it that, from what he learned about me from various, gossipy sources, he inferred that I could very possibly be having a hard time tapping into silly, positive emotions? And still, how could that possibly matter to him, or to anyone else?

I don't understand, and I loathe not understanding, as it fills my generally void heart with confusion and resentment, just like the first time the jaundiced, oily man back home trailed his sebaceous fingers down my cheeks, and like back at the orphanage, when the other children, may they scream in pain forever, ganged up and threatened me, before I ever, ever hurt them.

"_I am going to kill you all_" a small, reptile voice in my head states, and I regain my calm. "_I will open the Chamber one day, and kill you all_", the forked tongue of my soul venomously spits out.

* * *

Harry's PoV

After today's Transfiguration classes with the sixth years and then the seventh years, Albus invites me to come and have a butterbeer with him down at Hogsmead. I happily agree, sure that the fresh air will help me clear my mind, and eager to talk my thoughts over with my future friend and Headmaster. As I walk towards the village, I think of my two classes today, but I realise that during them my mind had been absent, lost in pictures of violence and grief. And yet, I must not lose my focus, and my focus is Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle is my mission and my war, and to me, there is nothing more important, so I shift to reflecting upon our previous encounter. And about his eyes, that during dinner, occasionally jumped to my direction, curious and poisonous and dark. Too dark.

_"It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance_." I remebered Voldemort telling me that thourgh his diary, and I realise that Riddle must have discovered the fact he was Slytherin's heir very early on, and that as I am walking to grab a butterbeer, he is very possibly researching Basilisks and Parseltongue.

_Is it actually too late for him?_ I wonder and a strange sadness overtakes me. This handsome, talented, quiet thirteen year-old boy, he might not be Voldemort yet, but he very certainly was already on his way to becoming just that.

I think of how Dumbledore had told me that he would not stop me if I had come to kill the boy, and I realise that the generally gentle, peaceful Albus would have never said that about a such a young one, unless, deep in his heart, he also feared that it might be too late for anything to change. I do not have as much time as I initially had thought, I observe to myself. I must be blunt with Riddle, and I must be swift.

Albus greets me and I walk towards him, sitting down next to him. He looks pale and generally unwell, and I recall reading about a Grindelwald attack on the Prophet. The same Prophet lying in front of Dumbledore right now. In my mind I can picture Albus young, hyperactive and idealistic, vulnerable by his repeated family tragedies and longing to forget, falling in love with a charismatic, talented blond wizard. I can only scratch the surface of what might have happened between them, but from the pain in his blue eyes and the celibate life I know him to have followed until his very old age, I think I can understand how important Gellert must have been to him. I try to think of something to say, but I say nothing, and simply order a butterbeer. It is he who speaks first.

"This war is about to break out in the open," he tells me, and points at the article.

"I know. We each have one to fight," I reply, and I smile at him, trying to alleviate the grieving in his eyes. "Although I can only imagine the burden of knowing that one day you will have to duel one you loved," I add, letting him know of my understanding, and that he can talk to me freely.

He doesn't seem surprised at my words or my knowledge of his intimate relationship with Grindelwald, and I deduce he must find it normal for me to know, since, according to the memories I showed him, we were so close. "I deserve this burden fully, for as much as I have been trying to avoid involving myself in this, it was I who let him take such a course. This war must end by my hand. It was I who first noticed him changing, and it was I who did nothing to prevent it," Albus whispers hoarsely, and he looks older than he did yesterday, or the day before, and vulnerable.

In fact, though he shoud look no more than fifty taking into account his extraordinairy life expectancy, right now he seems closer to what he truly is: a wizard in his nineties. I think about his sister's death, his parents' tragic fates, his doomed love and his broken dreams, and I find myself amazed at the fact that this man, who has suffered so much in his life, and could so easily have turned into a bitter, vengeful wizard, became who he became. A powerful, wise, moral, kind man, with no fear of death, and no desire for ascencion.

"You will be a lighthouse in men's hearts one day, and even your worse enemies will admire you more than they will hate you," I tell him, but somehow as the words leave my lips, I know that my statement will not make him feel any better. Although I cannot imagine being in his position, I try to imagine myself feeling obliged to kill a maniacal Ron with delusions of grandeur, and I shiver.

* * *

We talk about Riddle. I ask him question after question, pushing to know more about the boy, his habits, his friends, his hobbies, and end up feeling like an obsessive compulsive stalker. But he understands why I need to know as much as I can, and patiently shares his information with me.

I learn about his initial rivarly with Abraxas Malfoy, and how the blond boy seems to have now become his closest follower. I learn of his discreet and humble flirting, and his pity-evoking, heart-breaking childhood tales, with which he wins over the female population of the castle. I learn of his venturing in the forbidden section of the library, and his experimenting with blood curses in the prefect bathrooms. I find out about his interest in original copies of medieval books, and his very strange tastes in food.

The information swirls inside me, and I try to think of ways to use it as a means to my goal. Yet, as hard as I try to concentrate on Riddle, Albus' troubled eyes urge me to interfere in his own war.

"Do you still love him?" I ask suddenly, and as soon as I ask I regret it, and bite my lower lip. Nonetheless, in his own way, Dumbledore replies, by turning his face towards me and giving me a stunning, bittersweet smile. And on it I can read all the disappointment, and the loss, and the lingering affection in the world.

"Then go and tell him," I add. "Maybe it is not too late for you to redeem your own star-crossed nemesis. And unlike me, you can do it for yourself, not for the greater good." My voice is quite, and I barely dare suggest this, but I do. And suddenly I feel like hitting my palm onto my face, realising how unfortunate my choice of words must have been, taking the context into account. He doesn't seem to care, however, and simply looks sad.

"Although I will forever believe in the power of love, sometimes one has to accept that it has become too late to use it," comes his slow and steady reply, and I can tell he is pained to have to say that, for he breaks eye contact and he stares down, down, down.

"I woudln't say so, Albus. And the Headmaster I knew wouldn't, either, and he was an exceedingly wise man. When Voldemort went looking for the elder wand, that had been, in fact, burried with you, he went to Nurmengard, where Gellert was held, alone, abandoned, for life. To his inquiries about the wand, Gellert said nothing. Though he knew you'd been the one to hold the wand, he died in horrible pain to prevent your tomb and your memory from being defiled," I tell him, and a strange emotion I can't identify flashes through his eyes.

Seconds later, I can discern unshed tears, and even something close to relief. And then it hits me that maybe Dumbledore needs me right now as much as I need him. I put my hand on his and sqeeze it, and strangely enough, I instantly feel better myself.

* * *

The next day, nothing worth mentioning happens until the time for a Transfiguration lesson with third years comes. As soon as the kids start filling up the class, chirping like happy monkeys, Albus tells Tom Riddle, whose burning eyes I occasionally feel on myself, that he is once again to have a private, more advanced lesson with me. The boy says nothing, and follows me outside and to the empty, neighbouring classroom, where he sits down at the chair he's used the previous time before I can even say a word, and takes his wand out.

"_Expecto Patronum_" he casts, and a silver snake shoots out of his wand. It is still a little shabby, but the improvement is terrific. He looks at me with expectation. I understand that he is used to being praised, but that is not what he will get from me.

"This is nice. I take it that my comments helped you," I point out, and I deliberately choose the word 'help', knowing full well he'll probably hate it. He does. His eyes burn holes into me. He is too proud, too arrogant to say yes, but it would be quite ridiculous for him to say no. So he says nothing, and I admire his self-restraint. But I have no real time for these games, so I get straight to the point.

"But it's still not good enough for one with your skill. So, is there anything in Hogwards that you find truly beautiful, in a way that moves you? Or in the world at all," I ask him matter-of-factly, and glare back at him with all the strenght my green eyes could possibly carry. For a second his delicate eyebrows shoot up, and then they fall back down, and his face becomes a mask.

"Yes, of course. I like the Dining Hall, the candles, the books, the paintings, the kids, everything," he says bashfully, and I can tell how experienced an actor he is. I also note to myself that he does not include himself in what he calls _'the kids'_. He probably does not see himself as a normal human, let alone a child.

"You are lying, mister Riddle. And I can tell. So I ask you again. Is there anything anywhere that you find truly beautiful, in a way that actually touches you?" I repeat, and my voice is harder, more pushing. I try to make myself sound intimidating, but also attainable, and I think I manage. He stays silent for a long long time, and after his eyes squint, full of loathing, they relax, and look blank.

"No," the boy finally admits, and although I am not surprised at the truth of his answer, and I am more than shocked that he would admit so to a stranger; he must have realised he cannot fool me as easily as he fools others. His voice is flat and colder than an ice-cream in Alaska. In winter.

_One point for Harry Potter. The psychopath drops the mask and shows himself to me; this is bound to facilitate the process._

"Then think of it that way. If there is nothing of beauty in this world, by destroying and ravaging the unlimited ugliness, the ratio of beauty to monstrosity will never change. You can only do that by creating something of beauty yourself," I say, and he looks at me with mistrust written all over his frown, and cautiousness, and resentment. His jaw clenches, and for I moment I believe he might try to hit me, but he doesn't.

"Who said I desire destruction?" he eventually inquires, his lips twitching. He feels theatened, I recognise, and a familiar kind of magic begins to swirl around his lithe frame.

_Dark magic emanated from his form, defensively, and envelopes him in shroud of shadow. Ginny is dying at his feet. The letters swirl: "Tom Marvolo Riddle"... "I am Lord Voldemort"._

"I inferred it from your ambition to become a Dark Lord by the somewhat ridiculous name of '_Voldemort_'." I reply calmly, and smile.

He seems really taken aback, almost falling over, and though he is very young, his magic is ridiculously strong already, and I feel it flare up with a shocking passion, responding to my dangerous statement. Finally his self-control breaks, and his real thoughts come out of his storming mind.

"You can't know that name! I have never uttered it out loud," he mutters and his eyes widen and then squint in something close to rage, the rage of a trapped animal. I take a deep breath, and decide to be honest with him. I stand up.

His hand moves swiftly to his calf, but he does not unholster his secondary wand.

A relief.

I would not have wished to fight him yet.

"Well, I do know that name. And I can also tell you that if you follow that path, you will not only die, but die twice, both times by my hand. You will also lose your mind, your beauty, and finally your soul, and become a senseless, monstrous war-mongrel, whose army will only fight for him out of cowardly fear, and never out of respect. You will become a shadow of your current self, a parody. You will never find joy in what you do, or satisfaction, and you will leave this world alone and full of hatred," I utter clearly and slowly, with as much intensity as I can. His eyes widen even further, and his body becomes rigid. His breathing is quick and loud. But only for a few seconds. Then he also stands up, and faces me eye to eye.

Suddenly I realise just how fortunate it is that he is not even fourteen yet. If he is so aggressive but also collected, so strong but also cautious already, it would have been impossible to have any effect on him had I arrived a few years later.

Had I done the same thing a year later, having gained even more confidence in his abilities, he would have probably attacked me straight away.

"Are you here to kill me?" he hisses at me defiantly and with no apparent fear, although I know better, for it is his unhealthy fear of death that has dictated all of his future actions. I can't help but admire how well he hides that. Is that a hidden dose of Gryffindor recklessness and pride I detect there, Tom Riddle?

"If I wanted to, I would have. I am sure you know that, too," I reply gently and I sit back down, my eyes never leaving his.

"Then what do you want?" he asks breathelessly, and fells back to his own chair, his teeth gritted.

"I am most probably going to try and save you. But it might prove difficult, since you do not seem to have taken too much of a liking to me," I state, and he looks completely unprepared for that reply, and bewildered, his head tilting a bit and his lips ever so slightly parting, making him look, for the first time ever, like a child.

"You... _What_?" he spits out in total disbelief.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: JK Rowling is the ultimate human being. She transcends the concept of humanity and the evolutionary stage of _Homo sapiens Sapiens_. She is a being of pure energy. We are not worthy. We fall down upon our knees.

A/N: Yes, Potter just disclosed things that will probably make this chapter a bit more exciting than the previous ones. The logic behind his actions will be made clear soon enough.

Concerning Dumbledore, he is actually one of my favourite characters ever, and although I can accept well-written, well-documented Albus-bashing, I refuse to write any in my fics. He is the master brain of the light side, the Light Lord if you will, very perceptive and powerful, and even after his death it was mostly his meticulous planning, for example the fact he had so carefully placed and sustained Snape as Voldemorts right hand, and had been the only one to dig into Riddle's past and his psyche, that brought Voldemort down in the end. Also, he leads an 150-year celibate life after having been heartbroken in his youth by someone who actually is still willing to die in order to save Albus' honour. It is the most beautiful, tragic canon pairing of Rowling's world, and I would be an idiot not to include it.

Also, I have been spelling Hogwarts wrong more than once, it seems. That is like... a capital sin. Keel me, plox. And then please leave a review, too.

Last but not least, the first half of the **official clinical psychopath checklist of PCL-R** is the following: Glibness/superficial charm, Grandiose sense of self-worth, Pathological lying, Cunning/manipulative, Lack of remorse or guilt, Emotionally shallow, Callous/lack of empathy, Failure to accept responsibility for own actions. So yes, even though I am not academically qualified to do so, I'm inclined to make a diagnosis here. Please do not do that about real people in real life, unless you have a license to practice.

* * *

Chapter six.

Tom's PoV

"I am going to try and save you. But I might prove difficult since you do not seem to have taken too much of a liking to me," the man states in an eerily factual manner, and for a brief moment I am certain that I must have misheard, for his statement is beyond absurd to me, beyond surreal. His face morhps into a visage of fraudulent softness, but within his eyes something speaks to me of danger, and my hand, which is shamefully trembling, reaches out to my wand. My stomach is churning for reasons I don't understand, and I feel like I am having a very realistic, twisted nightmare, and right now, from behind the green man's heinous mask of good intentions, a thousand cockroaches are going to crawl to me and drown me.

_What in Morgana's name are you?_

I feel myself about to cast a slashing curse, my fingers curling around the rough, wooden surface of my wand; he speaks before I can even draw it, however, and I stop halfway.

"I wouldn't advise dueling me. I defeated you, after all, even after you had spent seventy years chasing knowledge and power," he tells me, and on his face I think I see a soft smirk that is sweetly mocking, which makes me see red with anger, but I am not entirely sure, for my right now my perception of reality feels strangely skewed.

And yet I regain my composure and remove my hand from within my second-hand robes, knowing full well, as much as I'd choke the moment I would have to utter it out loud, that he would easily best me in a duel for the time being. I try to accept the fact that this confrontation is really occuring, and that I need to handle it correctly, for it is crucial for my future plans.

His words of saving me echo in my mind, and I feel compelled to inwardly note that there is absolutely nothing I need to be saved from, and that if there was, I would be perfectly able to conduct my own rescuing myself. Nonetheless I cannot ignore the fact that, if his only desire was to prevent me from planting the seeds of war and horror, cold-blooded murder would have served his purpose much better, and he looks easily capable of such an act. Manipulation is, after all, tedious.

Once again, I fully fail to understand the green wizard's true motives, and that puts me in a weak, disadvantaged position, for apparently he holds extended knowledge over my own goals.

"Good luck with that. How do you plan on achieving it?" I finally spit out sarcastically, although I do not actually feel half as careless and confident as I make myself sound. His smile widens and his eyes glint in a way that I find alarming, if not sadistic, but that I am sure is meant to be more akin to good-natured. I am once again irritated to realise that my perception of reality is becoming increasingly poor, for once I focus myself properly, I realise that the wizard in front of me does not actually look like he wishes to harm me, nor does he emmit any sadistic vibes. Then why is he, in my own eyes, turning into a vulgar, dangerous monster? Is it just that I am afraid? Am I simply projecting my own supressed concerns and nightmares onto him?

I must simply be intimidated, I finally conclude to myself, and all of a sudden I feel strong and defiant and unwilling to be scared, for I can not allow myself such pathetic weakness.

"I will start by taking you to the Chamber of Secrets," his smooth response comes, and it is as unexpected as an August snowstorm in Greece. "Meet me here after all your lessons end," he adds, and it is not really spoken like an order, but as if he is entirely certain that I will want to go through with this, and is simply arranging a meeting point for our mutual convenience. His prolonged silence is perceived as a dismissal, and slowly, rigidly, I begin walking towards the door, never leaving my hinds unguarded, in spite of the fact that if he did wish to magically assault me, I would not be able to do much against it.

* * *

Outside the classroom I feel myself almost..._ floating_ rather than walking, still heavily disoriented by what has just occurred.

_The Chamber of Secrets_.

How could he have access to the temple of Salazar's will and knowledge, if not through being a heir of the Founder himself? I think of our notable physical resemblance and his impressive magical power, and the theory that he might be my own bastard son from the future makes itself known inside my mind. I find it ridiculous and dismiss it quickly, but not before something about it lingers behind inside me. How could he possibly have access to the Chamber and know of it, I ask myself again and again, obsessively, for I cannot accept that someone so casually discloses a secret that my brilliant brain has been trying to uncover for years. Is he a Slytherin descendant from an obscure, unknown line that lost itself amongst illegitimate children and squibs?

I tell myself this must be it, and try not to compulsively concoct theories any longer, and concentrate a bit on my Potions lesson, for that slimy suck-up, Slughorn, is sending disgustingly worried looks my way.

When I am done with these annoying, obsenely easy tasks referred to as lessons, I joke around a bit with Abraxas and Cygnus during dinner, and then I start gliding through the corridors towards the Slytherin common room. Only soon I realise that I am not actually heading towards the snakeling lair, but towards the empty classroom where my last confrontation with the green man took place, and were he fired at me his outrageous claims.

I am not sure why I am agreeing to meeting him, but I assume it has something to do with my overwhelming desire to discover Slytherin's Chamber by any means necessary, and I also reckon it might a good opportunity to find myself in a position of advantage towards the green man. I presume, after all, that it is me, the true, direct heir of the great Salazar that the beast inside the Chamber will chose to obey to, and not the green man, whose very existence feels like a forgery.

I enter the classroom, and sure enough the man is sitting there, with his magical aura fully unshackled and free, filling the room with consecutive ripples of condensed magic. He gets up, lets his Avada-coloured eyes scan me coolly, and I follow him, without a word exchanged.

* * *

Potter's PoV

I drink more than a few glasses of firewhiskey to pick myself up. My interaction with Riddle always has this horror-like, nightmarish texture to it, and although I am now an esteemed wizarding warrior and he is but a small, spiteful boy, the unbelievable coldness in his eyes sometimes scares me, and makes me feel as if I am fourteen all over again, alone in a graveyard, face to face with the Voldemort of my deepest fears.

I was wrong to think that this boy is not Voldemort yet.

_His fingers twitching as he reaches out for his wand, and in his eyes a frightening brand of rage; not the foolhardy, loud rage of a Gryffindor, but the silent, cold, secretive rage of a venomous snake. Can these eyes really belong to a child? _

_Was Voldemort ever a child?_

As much as I can sense he is somewhat afraid of me, which is natural seeing as I appear out of nowhere claiming to have killed him twice before and having extended knowledge over things he has never told anyone ( and hell, if that isn't enough to intimidate him I would be truly worried), there is also an incredible violence inside him, a boundless desire to destroy.

I don't feel physically threatened by him, knowing full well that I magically overpower him for the time being. But he does evoke a fearful awe in me, for to my eyes, he is a true monster, the only true monster, more heinous than any dragon of basilisk. And he is certainly the most disturbing thing I have ever encountered, for he is all the hate, all the gore, and the horror of the world trapped inside the body of a painfully beautiful and young boy with large, blue eyes; that is truly terrible, and it frightens me greatly.

I walk him to the infamous girls' bathroom, while he looks absolutely horrified and disgusted by the fact he is walking towards lavatories meant for females, and a slight bit disturbed when we eventually enter the said room. It is only when I walk to the sink and give my orders in Parseltongue that his eyes dawn with understanding and surprise, and he stares incredulously at the retreating marbles, and the carved little snakes sitting on them.

As soon as the entrance is disclosed, I make my way down the pipes, and he silently follows, watching his surroundings like a kid in wonderland, with less and less suspicion concerning the authenticity of this place. I feel myself compelled to laugh at the fact that visiting a dark wizard's muggle-eating beast is the best bonding activity I could think of. The Chamber itself is a huge temple-like room with pillars and sculpted serpents. There is a massive statue of Salazar Slytherin at the far end from which the basilisk comes when summoned, and plenty of Slytherin's writings are stored in various urns.

We walk towards the statue, and Tom Riddle tries hard not to gape, but does so anyway. He looks very small inside this huge, majestic chamber, I realise. As he starts walking around, examining old objects and mysterious carvings, I stay still in front of Salazar's statue, and memories of my own third year rush back into me. With a teenage Riddle besides in front of Salazar's figure, this feels more and more like a flashback, and I half expect to see a dying Ginny lying on the floor, a tattered diary not far from her pallid fingers.

* * *

"_Accio_ Potter's wand!" I hear very suddenly from behind me, in a cold-hearted voice, and my wand flies out of my pocket and into the boy's hand, who's expression of maniacal pleasure looks somewhat disturbing on the handsome face of a thirteen year old.

I do not really react, because I carry my wand out of sentimental value mostly, knowing full well that for a wizard of my power a wand is but a means of restraining one's abilities when one's control of pure magic is not very advanced, and that it does not in any way enhance them. I am grateful that Voldemort never came to that conclusion, for I doubt even I could have defeated him if he had transended his need for an object of magical focus, and his obsession with the Elder Wand.

The young male watches me with a look of triumph and hate and insanity, and he lifts his wand again, presumably to cast an _Avada Kedavra _or something similarly unpleasant.

"Are you going to kill me, Tom?" I ask, in a feigned light tone, and though I don't honestly believe that he is having any second thoughts about it, like Draco once did before the gentle eyes of Dumbledore, I try anyway, for if he can't actually bring himself to kill me, it probably means I am onto something good.

As I had already guessed, it doesn't work, and he flatly replies "**Yes**", and sends a colourful spell my way. I cast a silent "_Protego Maximalis_", and Riddle's spell is easily deflected by a shield of radiant light. I smirk, because I can tell he isn't trying as hard as he can, and he squints his hateful eyes.

_Why not an Unforgivable, Tom Riddle? Why are you not putting more effort into this?_

A much more powerful blood evaporation spell is thrown my way, and I admire Riddle for casting this one with his voice so low, for I can sense that as far as non-verbal curse-casting goes, he is getting there. I quickly cast an _Annulus_ spell, and Riddle's efforts are, quite expectedly, annuled. I immediately_ Accio _both wands strongly, and though as soon as they leave his hands his magic tries to keep them back from reaching me, they reach me anyway.

All sanity is long gone from his eyes, and he looks like a trapped animal.

Then, of course, he summons the basilisk, by shouting some nonsense about _"the Great Slytherin's Will_" loudly in Parseltongue towards Salazar's statue, and the foundations of Hogwarts begin to tremble. Tom Riddle's facial muscles come up with a terrifying smile of self-importance and joy. The statue makes way for the grandiose, killer reptile, and though I know I could easily slay it, for I did do so when I was merely thirteen myself, something rather unexpected happens.

Instead of swiftly attacking me, its fangs full of poison, like it did the time before and like I was bracing myself for, the basilisk appraoches me slowly, even lethargicaly, and begins speaking to me in Parseltongue, while Riddle's face distorts into hateful disbelief.

_"You? No, I will not face you again. You have defeated me already, when you were but twelve yearsss old. We basssilisksss are very ancient and powerful creaturesss, and our conssssciousness of life and death transcendsss time. And I can tell that you, young Gryffindor, have already killed me," _the great beast says, and it looks very serene before it then it crawls back where it came from, while I admire its splendid beauty and rejoice at the fact I will not have to kill it.

The statue of Salazar slides back into place, and all goes quiet. Riddle himself looks like a statue, frozen and pale, and I can tell he is gripped by his eternally overwhelming fear of death.

* * *

To his credit, he does not actually exclaim that "_this is not possible_", but instead just looks at me expectantly, maybe awaiting his demise, with defiant eyes.

_More courageous as a child than as an adult, huh._

"You did not cast a single _Avada,_ while I am sure that you know the incantation perfectly well. Your desire to kill is not too strong yet. There might still be hope for you," I tell him matter-of-factly and decide to offer him his wand back. His delicate, rosey lips part in amazement, and he looks absolutely dumbfounded. He stares at the offered wand as if it could be a trap, and then back up at me, his sky-blue eyes heavy with bewilderment.

"It is a very good wand. I advise you take it. The phoenix whose tail-feather is in there is a very good friend of mine, and I should, of course, inform you that he only ever gave two feathers. The other one is, quite ironically, inside my own wand," I add, and push the wand further towards the boy, until he finally grabs it, like a terrified but hungry animal grabs a piece of offered meat; swiftly and suspiciously. We look at one another in silence for a moment, and I am not really sure what is going on inside that boy's twisted, brilliant mind, but his outward appearance is blank and submissive.

We make our way back out of the Chamber, and I wash my hands in the girls' bathroom while he stares passively, and I can guess there is a storm of thoughts twirling around his head. "There is something I want to ask you," I finally say, so he looks at me expectantly once more, and ever so slightly nods.

I notice than his hair, usually combed into perfect, glossy waves and split at the side, is slightly messier right now. It makes him look a little less... A little more human.

"Do you think yourself a clinical psychopath, mister Riddle? I am sure you must have questioned yourself over this before. So, are you by definition unable to experience emotions not related to a sense of self-worth and superiority or a sense of self-preservation?" I ask, and he looks shocked with the unexpected question, and frigid, and entirely unprepared to offer an answer, so I continue.

"I have wondered for a long time whether this hollowness inside you is just the way your early experiences have moulded you, or if it is simply a case of your brain being unable to produce the chemicals corresponding to affection. Albus, Merlin bless his kind heart, wants to believe that such a psychological state can be developed as a defensive mechaninism, but some feel that more often than not it is actually hereditary."

It seems like aeons pass before he slowly begins to open his mouth. At first he makes no sound, but eventually, something comes out of it.

"I... don't know," he says in the end, and his eyes look down, his face troubled, but also relieved, I think. Then he walks away. I stay there alone, wondering whether I have pushed it too far. I do not want to fuck-up his psyche even further, and I feel that maybe today shouldn't have gone the way it went. I am afraid I might be prodding him towards downright insanity, and I wonder whether I can actually pull off this surreal mission. I was never good with feelings, anyway.

If Molly Weasley was here, she'd probably win the boy over in two hours with a green sweater and a lot of hot chocolate.

* * *

Albus's PoV

I whistle, and Fawkes comes to me, sitting on my shoulder. I look at my beloved companion with great admiration and affection, and give him the letter. I am not sure what the outcome of this might be, but I have very little to lose in terms of my heart. He gives me a look of softness and approval, and takes the parchment in his beak, flying off the window and out of Hogwarts.

_"I will never let you conquer the world, not even for the greater good, Gellert, my old friend, but there might still be time for you to conquer me", _I remember scribling towards the end of my letter, and I realise that I have in fact written down a lie, for his has already conquered me, years ago and forever. It is only a matter of whether he is willing to make the sacrifices required to be able to enjoy what is already his. And I am not ready to live sixty more years without ever knowing the answer to that, without ever trying.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I am not making any galle... I mean, muggle money out of this.

A/N: I am very glad to see the lack of Dumbledore bashing in the reviews, and that people are asking for a Grindledore reconciliation. It was my intention to include one, for I do not think Albus deserves to spend an entire lifetime torn by guilt (about Ariana) and heartbreak (about Gellert).

As for the HP/TR, it will be slow. Before they can start to even remotely like one another, they must first go through the colossal stage of learning not to hate each other. It might take... a few chapters. Which means around 20 of them. But don't be disappointed, I update pretty much everyday as things stand now, so it will eventually happen. Only when it becomes plausible, though.

Also, I want my readers' opinion on something. Do they want me to include secondary characters (such as Abraxas Malfoy or Headmaster Dippet) more actively in the plot or not? My initial thoughts are focusing solely on my main characters, since they is a lot to be written about them, but your wish is my command. Sometimes.  
And btw, a big thank you to all reviewers.

* * *

Chapter 7

Riddle's PoV

The worn-out, leatherbound book in front of me speaks of ancient soul wards and defenses of the spirit, subjects that would under any other circumstances be of immense interest to me, and yet, though my eyes fall onto the yellowed pages, I feel my mind drifting towards a completely differet direction. Malfoy and Black, along with these smirking retards, Cornell and Crowley, are playing something similar to wizard's poker, occasionally disrupting the very appreciated silence with unhealthy bounds of snickering, mocking and other such irksome sounds.

I find myself forced to lift my head and ask them to stop intruding the sensitive vestibular-cochlear nerves that lie beyond my already abused auditory canals, a request which I practically hiss at them, causing them to fidget uncomfortably and lower their pathetic, empty heads.

Out of both fear and respect they quickly obey me, and I find myself joyous not only because of the beautiful silence reigning once again in the common room, but also for the reason that I do love to observe, day by day, my power over Hogwarts students growing exponentially.

And yet, inside me, a traitorous, disgusting little voice is still asking, questioning me repeatedly._ "Do you think yourself a clinical psychopath? Do you, Tom? Is it perhaps that this world is not ugly and monstrous, as you think it to be, but** you **are instead?"_

I order this one to shut up as well, but it does not obey.

Later, I am staring at myself in the mirror. The Slytherin common room is the only one to have a full-body mirror, as much as I know, and I am not sure whether this is because Salazar's students are more vain than the rest, or just more beautiful. What I do know is just how beautiful _I_ am, and I gaze with pleasure at my porcelain skin, my naturally red lips, my deep azure eyes, chiseled cheekbones and ebony hair, feeling myself enamoured with what the mirror shows me. What that loathed little voice is telling me though, and I would strangle it had I not known that this voice is entirely my own, is that if I actually need my eidolon to remind me of how much I like myself, I must not be feeling very well today.

I do not, I admit.

I am feeling profoundly intimidated by the equally terrible and interesting events that occured inside the Chamber of Secrets, fearing a little for my own life and sanity, but also strangely exhilarated and awe-struck by my intense confrontation with someone of my caliber, or even above it. That... Potter, why would he refuse to make his task unimaginably easier by just deciding to casually murder me, when, according to his story, in his future I bring nothing but war and horror? I must be missing something, a crucial key to his motives and his manner of thinking, a secret hidden inside his soul that I cannot yet see, and is causing me confusion.

Either that, or he genuinely does not desire to kill me. Which, under the violent, hateful circumstances, even more so now than before my attack against him, makes no sense whatsoever, even to my greatly revered brain.

One thing I can conclude with a certain ease concerning my future behaviour, is that I should not anytime soon attempt to kill him again.

That is the case not only because it seems I have found in him a wizard that can actually overpower my magic, which is humiliating to me even though he does not seem to have any intention to physically damage me, but also it would be a an actual waste of time and energy on my part. So I delete any plans of revenge from my mind, focusing instead on how to possibly leech information out of him about his wishes and his mission, while also disctreetly pushing him towards revealing his true identity.

Something that can safely be deduced is that the man is clearly a time-traveller, for if I ever had any doubts about that even after his own admission of it, the basilisk's comment has now and forever banished them away.

Suddenly a horrible, bothersome, hideous emotion blooms inside me; one of admiration for a man that can travel through time, can cast spells without wands or words without their power diminishing, that can read the thoughts behind my eyes and tell me, in my face, what he thinks of me. As truly hard as I try, and as violently as I grit my teeth, I cannot help that emotion from blossoming inside me, filling me with an odd relief at the fact that someone like him truly exists, someone I can learn from and not look down to, someone to break my insane, horrific loneliness here, at the top of the world.

_It is a relief, a guilty pleasure, to be able to feel admiration for someone; I had thought this emotion long lost to me._

My body, sweating, collapses onto the velvet-covered sofa, as repugnant, loud snores fill the common room from behind a number of closed doors. Why is it that a small, twisted, crazy portion of me is relieved to have been defeated, relieved to have been uncovered for the beast that I am, relieved to have been unmasked and seen and truly spoken to? Conflicting thoughts clash brutally inside my already greatly strained mind, and I feel as if I am drowning inside a nausea I can't quite explain.

_Am I becoming tired of pretending, perhaps, of acting the part of the perfect boy, that it would be so liberating to be able to drop all pretense before someone?_

* * *

Break dawns and I still find myself completely unable to drift to sleep, unwilling to face my ever disturbing but often strangely sensual dreams of pain and death and horror, these dreams that present themselves both as desires and as nightmares.

I think of the green man, and how he is simultaneously the most threatening and most interesting occurance of my life, how he may destroy my ambitions and plans forever, but aso break the unnatural dullness, senselessness of my life.

Because, as much as I do not wish to die, my life does not really feel real, for days pass and days go without me feeling anything, loving anything, longing for anything, my heart grey and dead and heavy, filled with either indifference or hatred, disgust for my fellow human beings and contempt for their petty emotions. And perhaps, I suddenly think to myself and a dark dread I cannot fathom grips me, I wish to bring upon this world death and horror and pain and destruction, perhaps I wish for an apocalypse and an armageddon, all in a desperate attemp to wake my hibernating soul up, **to feel something, **if only pain, if only terror.

This terrorising thought I swiftly chase away from my tired mind, my heart beating quickly and full of panic, and I solemnly swear to never allow it to creep back into my head. And yet again I regain my calm, and my composure, bringing to mind how many grandiose visions I have created within me, and how beautiful it will be to achieve them, and the thought of power and achievement fill me with a twisted determination and an inner peace. I will not so easily betray myself.

I am Lord Voldemort.

* * *

In the Great Hall, at breakfast, I am serene, my face blank, free of emotions. I act up as my usual quiet, charming self, and those around me, like pitiful, helpless flies get unwittingly caught inside the elaborate web of my boundless charisma.

I even meet the green man's eyes, without letting anything show, anything about my tormenting, sleepless night and the nightmarish thoughts that have been so unexpectedly plaguing me. I know that these thouhts he wakes up in me, they are his war against me, his weapon in steering me away from my destined path, and of course, being Tom Riddle, I refuse to lose a war, any war. Yet, I thank Hogwarts for the fact that I've no Transfiguration lesson today, for I do not honestly believe I myself reasy for yet another blunt, powerful attack, psychological or otherwise, conducted by the green man, my very own self-proclaimed saviour.

* * *

Potter's PoV

Yesterday, I was ecstatic. This one timid "_I ...don't know_", this miniscule moment of genuine vulnerability on Riddle's part had felt like a great victory to me, in spite of all my doubts, all my fears. My straight-forward question had shaken, **must** have shaken Riddle, causing even the tinest crack on his adamantine-hard shell. But today, in breakfast, he was nothing like what I had expected him to be.

Cool, composed, perfectly calm, perfectly beautiful, perfectly self-assured, his eyes emmiting a chilling cold and a dark determination.

It is only then that I truly realise just how difficult a road lays ahead of me, for this shy-looking boy has already lost most of his soul to his own bottomless loathing.

I watch how he looks at his peers, and although no one else seems to notice this, his face is seems to be saying "_you are all children to me, pathetic, incomplete little children_", and his lips are curving upwards a little, in cynical disapproval. How can I possibly stir him away from his future path when he has already so fully immersed himself into it, indifferent to anything not related to his own ambitions?

And yet, I remind myself, I must. And I have already made a decent start. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville, so many lives destroyed I can repare if I can only save Riddle. My hero complex is, in the end, always my most faithful source of motivation.

Later in the evening, I am walking towards the library when I come face to face with Riddle in an otherwise empty corridor. I stop walking, and after a moment of hesitation, during which I suppose he examined the option of simply ignoring me and walking on, so does he.

"Do you know now? You must have had time to think," I tell him in a simple, straight-forward voice. I try to keep my face as empty as his, so that I can show him just how discomforting this blankness can be.

"No. Besides, is there a difference really, whether what I am is nature or nurture?" he replies, and the tone of his voice is low and nearly seductive, a smirk twisting his lips. I deduce he has found his self-confidence again, and his sarcastic streak. It is almost eerie, how quickly he seems to have recovered from yesterday's events.

"Yes. In one case, I will have to teach you how to live a fulfilling life while pretending to be a human being. In the other, I might be able to help you actually become one," I state, and in spite of the smooth perfection of his mask, I can sense him digesting my heavy response.

"I doubt I will let you try any of these two, sir," he says, mockingly, and all of a sudden "sir" sounds like a vulgar insult to my ears. His void blue eyes are glowing and I decide he could make millions in the horror movie industry only with these two truly disturbing orbs.

"If you leave me no choice, I will unfortunately have to... simply dispose of you," I threaten, my voice cool, and I purposefully let my magic flare up around me, twisting into violent little tongues, having noticed that he can, somehow, sense it.

"Really? I doubt you would. You do not seem to want to," he answers once again, and his face is now a little less calm, giving me the impression that he is not exactly as insanely confident as he was before, even if he is still very much in control of himself. I find myself somehow angered, nonetheless, at his mockery and sarcastic tone, so I decide to push a little harder. Little bastard; I should have known he would identify my kindness as vulnerability and would seek to use it against me.

_I tire of this game. After years of war, one loses the desire to exchange pleasantries._

"Listen now, little Tom; if I have to slaughter you, I surely will. You seem to forget that I, in fact, already have. I've seen your deformed body shrivel and burn, I've heard your inhuman shrieks of despair and I have stared right into your horrified eyes, or at least what was left of them. Do not ever mistake the fact that I have certain moral standards I abide to for weakness, because you will not live to regret your misconception. I do not desire to kill you, little boy, but if I have to, I will, and I will probably enjoy it," I hiss, and he looks like I've just spit onto his face, eyes widening, and wisely chooses to say nothing.

For a few seconds he is silent, the description of his death probably not sitting too well with him, but then he looks into my eyes, and offers me the most creepy, wide grin.

"That sounded just like something I would say. I'm beginning to get the feeling we are terribly similar, don't you think?" he notes, and looks happy, in a twisted way that no human should be. I repress a shiver, his words creeping under my skin. Our odd similarities: another weapon his future self had used time and time again against my then vulnerable mind. I can let it affect me no longer.

"I grew up believing I might turn into you, you know, knowing how similar we actually are. I didn't. So I have the practical experience required to help you not turn into you either," I reply with a note of black humour, ignoring the vicious intentions behind his last comment. Suddenly his face contorts a bit, and another facett of him comes into the surface, a part full of confusion and despair.

"How can you have such deluded opinions of me, you idealistic fool, when I can tell that at least you, unlike all these pathetic, pitiful worms around us, you can see me for what I truly am? I am a monster already, and you know it, and I know it, and your endeavours cannot change this, because this is who I am. I tortured little animals when I was still but a toddler. What part of it don't you understand? I feel nothing. I feel_ nothing_," he declares spitefully, his voice rising, and by the end of the last sentence his tone has lost its usual monotone, flat quality. There is a strange flame burning and twisting behind his eyes, and his facial muscles are twitching.

One would see insanity in this, but all I see is despair. A few seconds later he is still panting a little, and he seems petrified by what he has just said. In a twisted way, he looks almost endearing in his evident denial.

"I beg to differ. An outburst like that is a clearly emotional phenomenon. What I think is that you feel many things. Even psychopaths feel things, you know. You are simply very afraid to face them," I say calmly, even gently, because he looks like he is on the very edge of reason, and about to cross over. His eyes lock into mine, full of renewed hatred, and he looks like wants to murder me for having uttered out loud any implications of weakness, of vulnerability, of trauma.

"So, what has hurt you Riddle, and made you into this?" I ask, very quietly and softly, unsure about my question, and its possible effects. His face instantly becomes a mask.

He draws his wand and throws a bone-breaking curse at me, that I barely have the time to deflect it, taking into consideration our physical proximity. While I do so, and without looking back, he runs off.

* * *

Dumbledore's PoV

I read the letter again, for the seventh time I think. I can tell I am smiling, and I can tell the world looks brigther today. I swallow a lemon drop. And yet, the bastard, he had me scared for a moment. Always a playful tease, my Gellert. I stare at the parchment again. Eighth time, by now.

_Dearest Albus._

_I am afraid a measly letter is not enough to make me steer clear of my path to power. Seeing as my plans seem to be advancing so incredibly smooth, I would find it very hard to abandon everything just now. Yes, an insignificant little letter means little to me now, for I am on my way to glory..._

_..._

_In order to abandon my grandiose ambitions, I would require at least a dozen more letters, and a live meeting during which you can convincingly argue that your love is worth more than world domination. Oh Albus, you fool... You probably have no idea how much this petty little piece of parchment you've scribbled on, with your familiar, unreadable letters, meant to me. Have you forgiven me then, dearest, for Ariana, and for our fights? I wish I could turn back time and bring her back to you, for I regret nothing more than having caused you such pain. I never thought you'd want to see me again._

_My old friend, even war is less challenging to me than the endless conversations we used to have. Power is such a beautiful, addictive thing, but if you come to take me away from here, I might come with you, Albus. I used to have dreams for this society, when I was young. I had the world of Plato in my heart, a world where the wise would rule the commonplace men, for their own good. For the greater good. But I am older now, and I am still carrying on with this war for there is nothing else for me to do and Merlin knows I am angry, and I am bored. _

_I have blood on my hands, and I know you hate that. I doubt you will want me back once you see what I've become. Aurors have a price on my head, and the years have been unkind to me. I would still like to see you, though.__ I want to show you how close I am to finding the Deathly Hallows, because finding them without you by my side means so much less than it should._

_Come and convince me then, Albus, for my German Muggle allies are becoming more insane by the day, and I fear I am beginning to hate them more than my own enemies. My followers adore me while I despise their weakness and narrow-mindedness, and no one seems to understand the beautiful ideals I once held dear. There's probably no hope for me anyway, for I know that should I take this too far, you'll surely come and try to stop me; and we both know that of the two of us, you were always the better duelist._

_Maybe it was the plan all along, who knows. If I can't be your lover, I shall be your enemy, and at least, this way, still haunt your soul._

_Albus, you are welcome to bring an end to my madness if you can._

_Gellert._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I am not making any profit from this, except from the cookies that some random reviewer gave me.

A/N: First of all I feel compelled to reply to a few comments by Memys, and solve a few of his/her very intelligent questions.

Concerning Albus' age: Harry, from his point of view, thinks of Albus as a man in his midlife. Which he is. He might be in his 80s or 90s actually, but in muggle years he is no more than fifty, since he, in canon, lives up to 150, and does not even die by natural causes.

Tom and names: I think that Tom is actually not at all OOC when he finds the simpleness of Harry's name disgusting. I know his own name is simple too, but he -hates- his real name, remember? We know that instead of the muggle-sounding name "Tom", he picks an auditory abomination such as "Voldemort" instead. Thus it makes sense for him to believe that powerful wizards should not have plebeian names.

Harry's bluntness: I personally don't think Harry's honesty and bluntness are actually a stupid choice. He could of course present himself to the boy as whatever amazing draconian warmage named Sylver or Icikle, but the Slytherin -would- eventually put two and two together, seeing as he is a genius, and Harry would lose his trust forever. Also, canon!Harry is fairly straightforward. He is not a cunning little actor, and I don't think that he would become one even after a hundred wars.

Harry's money: He is now a teaching assistant. He's signed an employment contract. I can therefore deduce he is getting paid. As far as clothing goes, I do not describe Potter's every activity; I am a lazy author, hehe. Just because I never mention him bying anything it doesn't mean he hasn't. I don't describe him urinating either, but I am sure he has been doing that. I don't write stuff that are not interesting to me. Also, do not forget he is an accomplished wizard. He could, if he had to, wear the same clothes everyday and simply transfigure them into different outfits and clean them with a few simple charms.

Albus/Gellert: I do not try to make it real. I -believe- it to be real. Unless giving your life to save the post-mortem honour of someone you had a fling with 130 years ago is not a sign of not having gotten over them. I believe in Grindledore. I believe!

I hope this helps! :) Feel free to ask more questions.

Secondly, my _should secondary characters become more involved_ poll went horribly wrong, because I got everything from "Hell yes, it will make everything so much more interesting, to "Secondary characters are chapter fillers, lets get on with the action." Not sure what to do.

WARNINGS: This chapter describes a very twisted dream and a very disturbing vision. I am talking about violence, torture and pain. Skip them if you want though, they are not too crucial to the plot, I only seek to uncover what sort of burdens both Tom and Harry have been carrying.

* * *

Chapter 8

Potter's PoV

I retreat to my little room, and once again find myself downing heavy sips of firewhiskey. Trying to approach Riddle feels like a approaching a Wolfhound puppy with rabies. You know it's sick and you have to help it, because it's still just a puppy. You also know that you are bigger, stronger and more experienced than it is. And yet, because its disease renders it so hostile, everytime you try to come closer, it brutally shreds your hands with its surprisingly sharp teeth, and you find yourself at a loss. How can you possibly capture such a mistrusting, enraged, sick creature without hurting it?

I ponder upon that for a while. At some point it finally occurs to me that I have been creating an analogy between Lord Voldemort and a puppy, and I decide that it's about fucking time I put a halt to this firewhiskey habit.

_Damnit, Harry. Get a grip, mate._

I get myself into the shower in an attempt to shake my mind up a bit, and warm water pours down my ever undisciplined dark hair. My thoughts drift towards Riddle again, inevitably. His outbursts and his dramatic exit, two events that I cannot think of neither as victories, nor as defeats. What I can do though, is conclude that Albus's open minded opinion of the boy not actually being a born psychopath seems to be gaining points. Yes, the Gaunts were not particularly nice people. In fact, they were a bunch of interbred morons.

But Merope was ethical enough to set her loved one's mind free after some time of captivity, and Riddle senior did add some healthy new genes to the bloodline.

Even if Tom Riddle does have a natural predisposition towards darkness and violence, something which I can easily see being true, I am beginning to suspect that something else must have happened for him to be pushed to such extremes. His running away at my gently spoken words seems to reinforce that theory, the theory that Tom Riddle is so utterly monstrous inside partly because he is damaged. But what could have caused such profound but invisible damage? Growing without parents and never understanding why he was so different from muggle children, or is there something else that I don't know about? Legillimency is in order, I believe.

I get out of that damned useless shower and slide into the bedsheets. My body seems to be suggesting masturbation, but my mind is really, really not in the mood, so I keep my hands strictly above the sheets. I just lie, in silence and immobility, and listen to the rain falling outside. I miss, once again, Hermione and Ron, and even Ginny, in spite of how far apart we had been drifting, divorce and all. I think of their suffering, and their loss, and the horrors they have had to face in these cursed wars, and I make myself feel better, knowing that all I am doing, I am doing it mostly for them. Nonetheless, I thank Merlin for Albus, for this one "loved one" that can be here with me, and try to think of other acquiaintances of mine that might already be alive.

Ollivander must already be a wand-maker, since Riddle did get his wand from him, as I seem to remember. Minerva McGonagall... Well, chances are she is already old enough to be a Horwarts student, but how come I never... Oh gods. Of course. That second year, in the front row, whose name I never quite got, with the red glasses and wavy hair. That's why she'd seemed so familiar, I realise. I thought she had simply reminded me of Hermione, which, being another unsufferable know-it-all with bushy hair, she probably had, but there was more to it. Minerva!

I smile, and decide I should pay more attention to her from now on, seeing as she is to become not only a good friend of mine, but also an absolutely priceless ally.

* * *

Yet, even while I am thinking of Hermione, Minerva and bushy hair, the cold blue eyes of a certain boy still haunt my mind. Have I proven myself to him, have I displayed my power clearly enough for him to grasp its extent, have I managed to truly make him think of his actions, and their consequences? Am I doing what is right, and what is best for my loved ones? I trust in my magical power, but is my mind organised enough, is my spirit still strong enough to pull me through this task? I honestly don't know, and sometimes this terrible uncertainty frightens me.

I hold a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, but only time can tell. Eventually, I drift to sleep. My sleep is tumultous and uneasy.

_**I dream of a house made purely out of bodies, human bodies, mingled together, bloodied, mutilated, disfigured, malformed. I dream of empty eye sockets and sewn lips, and hands with smooth stubs instead of fingers trying desperately to grab me. I dream of silent screams, and portruding ribs, and the faces, oh Merlin, the faces have scars on them, lightning shaped scars. And a moment later they don't. They become Remus', Tonks', Snape's, my godfather's, Fred's, Arthur's, Molly's, Pomona's. **_

_**The dead, all the dead, their empty eyes so accusing. I was their best hope, and I let such terrible, unmentionable things happen to them, I know. Putrid limbs surround me, and the space around me is closing in. "**I am sorry**!" I yell, and I know it's my fault, and I truly am sorry. And then, an inch before my face, there is Voldemort's pale, snakelike visage, his eyes slits of crimson hatred, his forked tongue hissing from between his fleshless lips. "**You will never be free of me**" he says, and I scream.**_

I wake up, drowned in a lake of sweat.

I pour myself another glass of firewhiskey.

* * *

Albus' PoV

Fawkes is eating a mouse, and I am watching him in fascination. Simultaneously, I am also carrying out some research for my upcoming paper on the magical properties of Chimaira teeth and their use in ancient Greek transfiguration rituals. I am also listening to Beethoven. And eating lemon drops. And humming, but only a bit. But what I am doing most of all, is thinking about Gellert.

_Have you forgiven me for Ariana?_ he has asked. Have I? I guess I have, as the guilt for her death I seem to place solely upon my own two shoulders.

I have long ceased to care about which curse it was that killed her.

All I know is that I was a selfish, careless brother, and that it both cost Ariana her life, and cost me Aberforth's love. Gellert has heavier sins to atone for, and we all have to carry forth our crosses in this life, none innocent but the newborn babies. Gellert's cross is heavy, but my shoulders are strong, and I think I am ready to carry it with him, to guide him back to balance and inner peace. I summon strawberry jam from the kitchens below, and dip the lemon drops one by one before placing them on my outstrecthed tongue. I swallow, and decide that right now is probably the best moment to write back to Grindelwald.

After a few seconds of hard thought, I decide to invite him over at Godric's Hollow for the Christmas holidays.

It is probably the last place Aurors would look if they ever tried to track him down, and it holds many memories for us. I write my invitation down, and also suggest he should disband his legions of cowardly wizards with unhealthy ambitions, and perhas even murder that lunatic ally of his, Hitler, before coming over, as a house-warming present. Then I think about how cold it will be during the winter, and how usefull mittens will probably be. I jolt down something about mittens as well, and then some interesting facts about Chimaira teeth from my recent research.

I re-read the parchment and find it satisfactory, albeit a little crowded by non sequiturs, which doesn't matter, because I am known for my non sequiturs anyway. I hand the parchment over at Fawkes gleefully, and he looks a me with a little bit of mock suspicion. He then chirps, and gracefully moves his wings around in a strange, dancing motion. He seems to be delighted, I notice, and I can only imagine what he must be thinking. "_Old coots, took them long enough..."_

The letter gone, I switch the Beethoven vinyl to a Bach one, and decide to have a tea.

Which I summon from Anya Lendescu's little cafe, spitefully, because I hate that crazy woman and I like making her things disappear, making her life thus a little more miserable without actually feeling like a bad person.

It is then that I realise that I also have Gellert's mean streak. I just channel it into less harmful activities. I will make sure to teach him how to summon objects that are very far away from him, with this tweaked version of_ Accio _I've come up with, because it does seem to help me take my anger out. Perhaps it will help him find emotional relief and overcome his urge to be the ultimate shaper of a new world order. Most probably not though, and I begin to muse on different strategies. Sex is probably a good one, and I note it down somewhere, so that I don't forget it. Then I start humming again.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

After my confrontation with the green man, I run straight to the Slytherin dungeons, through the common room and into my bed. I cover myself with my bedsheets, and I am not sure why I do that, only that it must look absolutely ridiculous and pitiful.

My heart is still beating hard, and I realise I am panting, which is something I have always found highly unattractive and lacking in refinement.

"_What ridiculous, trite nonsense. __No one has hurt me"_ I whisper to myself, but even my inner voice seems to be cracking, so I decide to undress and try to sleep, for the more I sleep, the less I will have to think about what happened. And perhaps tomorrow I will wake up being perfectly fine once again, cool, composed, confident and charming, my fragile inner balance regained. I therefore do undress, immediately so, with movements that, to my own disgust, appear to be desperate, and I move back into bed, clinging onto the bedsheets for reasons also unknown to me.

I close my eyes and take deep, cold, controlled breaths, letting my lungs fill with air and my mind fill with emptiness, until rationality gains power over my body once again.

_I am a monster_, I told Potter,_ I am a monster and I feel nothing_. And though my hands are still trembling, like Angela's, what a pathetic cow, when I smile at her and compliment her hideous, greasy mess of a hair, this eerie relief creeps into my psyche once again, for I have finally spoken that denied thought out loud, for the first time, and hopefully the last one.

Adrenaline is still circulating through my blood stream, and yet my heart soon quietens down, and my muscles return to their normal, relaxed state, which I am very grateful for._ I feel nothing_, I had said, but yet this fucking asshole is right, because I do feel something, I feel a vague, nameless fear gripping me and filling my mind with memories of the orphanage, of the day the oily, icteric bastard took me away, of my arm breaking, of a newborn squirrel dying in my hand, and more, and more. I feel flooded with violence, and I can hardly control my magic, as it fervently seeks to destroy, to unleash itself upon the world, dark and unforgiving, for I am no lost, vulnerable child anymore, and vengeance is mine, all mine.

Vengeance for what? For the broken arm, the disgusting affection, the children calling me a freak of nature, mocking me, hating me, fearing me? _**No**,_ a deep, dark voice from within me says, and it says so with a gravity, a certainty that scares me. Then what? Why is it that I must avenge myself, what is it that they need to pay for? My magic swirls around me, hugging me in a tight, suffocating embrace, forcing me to think harder, to remember, and it is unfathomably angry, and hideously ugly.

The orphanage comes to mind again, a distorted image from years ago, like a broken music box, producing a hollow screeching sound. The children, bullying me, yelling at me, laughing. But this memory means nothing, and I move onto the next one.**_ Further back_**, my magic screams. A teacher, hitting my swollen hands with a rod, sadistically. But this is not it. It is not the right one.** _Before this, further back!_ **This magical tempest is pushing my mind to breaking point. A faded memory of myself, crushing a little bird under my foot. There is blood, and I lick it. **_No, no, before that, before all of it_.** An older boy stealing my bread, and eating it in front of me, while my stomach aches in agony. _**Further back. Further back!**_ A well...

"_What has hurt you so, Riddle_?" echoes the green man's voice, and it is the right question, only I don't know the answer. But I do. _The well..._

The well?

And then my mind blocks, completely and beyond repair, and though I desperately try to reach that memory, it becomes blank and cold, like white noise, like sand between my fingers.

_What in Morgana's name is this wall I've stumbled upon? Have I been Obliviated?_

My magic relaxes, becoming smooth and silent, distant and grey, and it slowly comes under my control once more. I realise then that I am crying, silently, with warm tears running down my cheeks, and I feel like an absolute disgrace, because no thirteen year old that has the ambition to shape the world one day cries for something as stupid as a memory that they cannot even recall. And yet my tears fall, having been held back for years, and years, and years. And then, finally, dragged down by exhaustion, magical strain and emotional draining, I fall asleep, and I sleep heavily, like the dead.

* * *

Harry's PoV.

I am talking with Albus about my latest head-to-head with the future Lord Voldemort, pushing him for more and more information about the boy's backround, his childhood, his roots. He tries to be as helpful as he can, and points out that the kid's foster father is a sickly, slimy muggle man. And yet, he assures me that he's looked into the matter, and that the man has never actually assaulted Riddle, sexually or otherwise, except from a single incident during which an arm was broken. An unpleasant experience for a young boy, he admits, but not one that could change him into an empty shell overnight. Apparently, the problem was there already, and this poor choice of a foster father must have only magnified it, he adds, looking concerned. I ask him about the orphanage.

It seems that Tom Riddle was already a very sick boy even at the age of six, before he left the place, I am told, killing little animals and stealing from other children. A lot of violent accidental magic, too, Albus notes, and I am feverishly scriblling everything down on this little notebook in my mind. I am fully ready to believe that at the most tender age of six, Riddle was already developing the personality of an abusive sadist, because this** is **Voldemort we are talking about, after all.

But what about before that?

"Little is known about Riddle's very early years. I have no information for you." Dumbledore replies apologetically, and he pushes his glasses back up. He also cheerfully swallows a lemon drop, which I could have found inappropriate since we have been talking about traumatised children, but I don't, because it's Albus.

And suddenly I get a hunch, a disturbing, eerie, gripping hunch, that leaves no doubts inside my mind. This must be the key, I tell myself.

This must be the key.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I am but a petty muggle. Don't mind me. All praise Rowling and her endless oceans of genius. Bring the sacrificial goats.

A/N: The last chapter seemed to be quite a hit. Many of you wondered about the supressed memory. You will get half the answer in this chapter, half in the next one. Be patient. Note also that it will not be a nice, warm anf fuzzy revelation. It has been inspired by a rather nasty nightmare of mine. After which I had woken up screaming.

Furthermore, this chapter will include a *gasp* OC, and will be all narrated by Harry. No worries though, she's not here to stay for more than one or two chapters. She's merely a necessary plot device, and she is also an elderly woman with a bun, so you can breathe again and turn off the Mary Sue alert. I am not going to insert a purple-eyed Potter twin with a pet unicorn. I am not immoral, evil, torturing and sadistic enough. For the time being, and as long as you give me reviews.

On another note, this story's rating is going up to M due to the increasing amount of disturbing content. I would give you specific warnings, but it would give things away.  
Finally, I need you to keep in mind that I have slightly altered Rowling's original conception of Riddle's childhood. In my AU, Riddle left the orphanage at a very young age, and therefore the cave incident, the hanging rabbit incident and the chicken pox epidemic never actually happened.

WARNINGS: M-rated chapter.

* * *

Chapter 9

Harry's PoV

For the first time in a long, long while, it is clear to me exactly what my next step should be.

And fortunately the weekend is only just beginning, which makes it possible for me to leave Hogwarts of a day or two, something that I actually really need to do. The morning rays fill my mind with clarity, and I transfigure my robes into a nice, clean muggle outfit. I then take my leave, exchanging a few friendly words with teachers and students that I meet in the corridors. As soon as I am out of sight, where my ability to apparate in and out of the castle will not cause interest or even panic, I disappear with a soft popping sound. When I arrive in central London, I make my way to social services, and inquire about the location of a certain Wool's orphanage. The man there is surprisingly friendly, and looks through his lists as quickly was he can, sensing my urgency. As soon as I get the information I seek, I leave hastily and find myself a lonely corner from which I can once again apparate.

Eventually I arrive. _Wool's Orphanage_, a big, rusty sign indicates, and behind it I see an old, fairly run-down orphanage. Around there's green, an awful lot of it, and forest. It does not look half as bad as I had expected it to, and wonder if such a simple, innocent place could possibly hide the dark secret I am looking for.

But if Riddle's baby blue eyes can hide Lord Voldemort, than appearences have forever lost their meaning, and I enter. A chubby middle-aged muggle woman greets me. I greet her back, and I explain to her than I am the teacher of a former resident of this institution, and that I wish to talk with someone that might answer to a few questions about that particular child. She is helpful and understanding, but she has been here for a litle over 5 years, and knows no "Tom Riddle". She tells that she and the other woman working here now were both hired by Mrs Cole at around the same time, when the women previously employed here retired. I ask to see this Mrs Cole, so she takes me a large, humid office, where a strict-looking but ridiculously polite woman is signing off a few papers, and drops me there.

Mrs Cole listens to my story carefully, while still placing her signature here and there blindly.

"So you are Tom Riddle's teacher? From the fact you have come to us for help, I take it that he still is as troubled a child as he always has been. We only had him for six years, but I will never forget this particular child. And it is not only because of the dramatic manner his dying mother delivered him to us," she states, lowering her angular glasses and meeting my eyes with concern.

"Troubled. Yes, that would be a good description. I am trying to help him, you see, but without information about his backround, his childhood, I fail to understand the roots of his aggressiveness," I reply, in a calm, gentle voice. I hope that she does not dwelve further into my motives. She doesn't. She nods understandingly, even approvingly. Mrs Cole then removes her pointed glasses, looks up at me and inhales a large quantity of air, releasing it with a deep sigh. She puts her papers aside, and leans towards me.

"I see," she says.

"You know, I did not have much contact with the children myself. I am mostly here, handling the paperwork and giving the orders. All I know about Tom, as that everyone constantly talked about him and the strange incidents that would occur around him. They whispered about the boy with hatred and fear, as they would about a beast, and both children and care-takers tried their best to stay away from him, as if he'd had the plague. Except from the brave but stupid boys that would occasionally attempt to bully him, that is. Many a times the objects in his room would catch fire or break, without us ever understanding how he did it. He got hurt quite often too, sometimes by these children ganging up on him, and more often than not without apparent explanation. That is all I can say," she tells me, looking honestly sorry that she does not know more.

For a moment I am very disappointed, having found nothing even close to what I am looking for. But then I realise that Mrs Cole is not really done talking, and I turn my attention back to her words. Her expression becomes conspiratory.

"Only one care-taker ever really approached that child. She was a rather quaint woman herself, but very sweet and caring with the little ones. Her name was fairly odd, too. Accacia Summervault, I think it was, and she retired a few years back. I can give you her address if you wish, for if someone can possibly help you, it is certainly her," she concludes, and I smile gratefully, knowing that I have finally gotten myself a lead. Taking the paper with the address scribbled on it, I thank Mrs Cole from the depths of my heart, and make my way towards the door.

"I am always happy when people take such an interest in helping a damaged, orphaned child. You seem to really care about him," she notes softly as I am walking out, and I slowly turn around, our eyes meeting. I offer a smile, a bittersweet, pained smile, and then I take my leave.

* * *

A few hours later, the sun is setting, and I am standing in front of a small, decrepit house in the middle of nowhere, on top of a little hill, with a quite a few shabby stairs in front of it. The place looks very neglected, but sweet in its own way. I am walking up the few dozens of stairs made out of rotten wood and making my way to the front door, when I suddenly recall having heard the name Summervault before. Some Sussana Summervault, employed at the Ministry of Magic as a secretary, I seem to remember, and it occurs to me that Summervault must be a wizarding surname. It does sound like one, and so does the given name Accacia. Also, this would most conveniently explain the woman's understanding towards Tom Riddle's accidental magic.

And yet, why would a witch be working in a muggle orphanage? By the time I wrap up my thoughts, I am looking into an old, decaying door, and I knock. The door creaks, revealing an old woman in a burgundy robe, her hair in a tight white bun. Her face is friendly, but she looks tired and lonely.

"Good evening young man. Are you lost? I can offer you tea and a map, if so. Do come in," she greets me cheerily, and all of a sudden she reminds of Albus quite a bit.

I offer her a look full of gratitude and make my way into the house, where I remove my cloak and bow politely. Looking around, I note the a dried lizard hanging from a shelf.

"Thank you. I am Harry Potter, pleased to make your acquaintance," I say, and she looks delighted, and rushes off to make tea, mumbling something about the rare joy of having guests. I wait for her in the hall, looking around the little weatherworn house once more. She must be a witch, I deduce, mostly from the strange amount of herbs, vials and trinkets that I notice. And yet, there is no actual item that is distinctly magical in here, no self-cleaning plate or rememberball or magical chess-set, and I that causes me to become a little confused. She is soon back with two cups of tea, with cinnamon as my nose informs me, and we have a seat around a small round table with doves painted on it.

"I am not actually lost, madam. I came here looking for you specifically, if you are Accacia Summervault, that is. I am the teacher of a young man called Tom Riddle," I state after a few sips of tea, and strangely enough, she looks completely unsurprised. She looks up to the crumbling, deliberating about something, and then she goes into the kitchen to bring cookies.

"Tom Riddle huh? What school is that?" Accacia asks as soon as she returns, and she places a plate full of chocolate fudge cookies in front of us.

"It's a very ...special school," I reply, not really knowing what I should or should not reveal. She beams at my reply, and sips some more tea.

"A wizarding school I take it? Heh, I just knew this boy was no muggle. I am glad my instincts were right," she mumbles, and something wooden is creeking above our heads, under the weight of rain pouring down outside. She is a witch then. But is she, really? I feel no magic in her.

"Yes. I teach at Hogwarts," I finally admit. "You are a witch then, as well? Your lifestyle is very unique." I add, still confused about the old lady happily eating her cookies before me. She smiles at my question, her eyes sparkling, and then she even chickles.

"Me? No, no. I am a petty little squib. Mother and father never forgave me for that, and because of it I was raised as an orphan myself. But I do occasionally get a few magical hunches. And I can produce decent potions, as long as they don't require incantations and magical ingredients. My sister must have gone to Hogwarts, but I have no idea what became of her, or the rest of my family. They are lost to me. I belong neither to their world, nor the muggle one, sadly," she tells me, and I consequently realise why my wizarding radar was having a hard time drawing cocnlusions about madam Summervault. A squib, then, leading the life of an eccentric, lonely muggle. It makes sense.

* * *

"But you came here to talk about Riddle, did you not?" she points out, steering the conversation back into its initial flow. She looks at me, and I can tell she is expecting an explanation for my inquiry.

"See, madam..." I begin, but I am interrupted.

"Please call my Accacia."

"Accacia then. Tom Riddle is a... very damaged child," I begin, not sure how to express myself without mentioning the whole Dark Lord fiasco. "He has shown a behaviour both sadistic and manipulative that is very unusual for a boy his age. The way he has been acting up to now suggests that his psychological state is steadily declining, and we fear he might soon need to be institutionalised in order for us to protect the other students from him. I would like to try and prevent that, because I think he is a very bright child with great potential, and I would hate to see that potential wasted. I need you to help me understand what made him into such a troubled mind," I explain to her, and my eyes are pleading, for I know that she probably does have some of the information I have desperately been looking for.

She smirks at me.

"You are being subtle and polite about this, my boy. What you mean to say, is that the boy has become downright twisted, and nothing but a very nasty childhood could explain such behaviour, unless it is genetic. No?" she asks, and she fixes her white bun higher up with a sharp pencil. She then grabs another cookie, and pours some more tea into her pink cup, that has blue cats painted on it.

"Yes. I... Yes," I agree, and then I wait for her response.

For a few seconds she doesn't say much. She only goes back to the kitchen and brings some chocolate cupcakes, homemade. She then walks up to a rusty, spider-infested shelf and pulls out some potion. From the smell that fills the room when she opens the vial, I understand it to be a tonic of medium potency. She laces her tea, and drinks on. The rain outside is falling heavier now, joined by lightning and thunder. Some sort of animal can be heard howling or screaming. Her cheery look is gone, and something mildly disturbing lurks behind her eyes.

They become a little glassy, and then she opens her mouth again, slowly. Her voice is changed.

"There... was an..._ incident_. The boy was only four and a half back then, if my elderly brain serves me right, and before that the only notable thing about his behaviour had been some harmless accidental magic, of the really common kind. And even that was very rare, and I was the only one to notice it. You know, a strand of hair that grew too fast, a little bit of bouncing when he once fell... The magicks that every wizarding parent expects their child to manifest. But... after the... incident Tom Riddle was changed. His eyes never reflected childhood in them, ever again,". She talks slowly, cautiously and with great regret.

I sense she must have held quite some affection herself for the blue-eyed boy, who is now forever lost to the darkness, and from whom only occasional pieces can possibly be retrieved. There is a hoarse sadness in her voice, the focus of her eyes becoming increasingly distant. I need to learn more.

"An incident?"

"Some older kids, they did not like Tom at all you see, jealous little bastards, for his charming doe eyes and his advanced vocabulary, his sociable, curious personality attracted all care-takers to him, and he received a lot of supplementary affection. Him and that other child, too, the one he was always together with. The only one to be at Tom's level of mental development, the only one Riddle played with. That child. He was named Erik, I think. Another intelligent, charismatic little boy, may he rest in peace... These boys..." she starts again, but then stops. She looks at me with eyes full of misery, and I can tell that whatever happened must have also shaken her up, must have also been engraved onto her soul.

During her silence, I ponder about the concept of Riddle being "_always together_" with another child, being loving and happy, and how completely opposed to his current personality this would have been.

"Behind the orphanage there was a forest. Sometimes the older kids used to jump over the fences and play there, although we strictly forbid it of course, and tried our best to prevent them from doing so. One day, Tom, Erik and a few of the older kids, a bad bunch of them in fact, around the ages of nine and ten, went missing. The older boys showed up the next day, claiming that they had been playing hide and seek with young Tom and his friend, and had gotten themselves lost. "

"Their story was clearly rehearsed, and their eyes were cruel. Martha and I became very worried about the little boys, and went looking for them. The forest behind the orphanage is a vast and hostile place though, and we soon had to return to the orphanage without any clues about the boys' whereabouts. I called the police soon after, but they did not bother to show up until the third day, when most of us where already assuming the young boys to be dead. The group of kids that been with them on the day of their disappearance were obviously acting under a pact of silence, and there was nothing me or the police could do to make them speak. The officers looked around the orphanage for a few days, but soon they lost hope and interest, and left us to our own devices... The boys..." her voice cracked very badly at that point, and I noticed her hands shaking as she poured herself more tea. The storm outside filled the occasional silence.

"The boys were found eleven days later, by accident, when a deer-hunter heard weak screams from the bottom of an abandoned well. The police was called in once more, and they made their way down the humid hole that reeked of human urine and excrements. They did find the boys, but only Tom was alive, and even he wasn't really living. He looked like death itself, pale, broken. One of his hands was gravely injured, the flesh slashed and bleeding, his skin was so damp that it was practically peeling off his body, two of his toes where half gone to gangrene..." Accacia confessed, and I could see her eyes filling with horror, her lip trembling as she drank some tonic potion straight from the vial.

* * *

I remain silent, unmoving, trying only to digest the disturbing, eye-opening information I was receiving.

"The other boy was dead, and even rotting when they got him out. He had been smashed over the head with a rock, the police told us, and they interviewed Tom while he was at the hospital. But... the boy never said anything. Anything at all. His eyes, after that day, they were never the same, you know. All humanity was gone from them, all warmth, and all was left was two peircing blue orbs, cold, void, staring right thourgh us in silence."

"No one really knows what happened during the time they spent down that filthy hole, and even the older boys that had presumably caused this incident never talked of it, out of guilt, fear and horror. All I can tell you is that for a few days, Tom had a heinous scar on his left hand, a mark caused by a brutal human bite, and nightmares during which he'd feverishly mumbled "_tried to eat me... I am rotting..."_ or something , the scar just disappeared, along with the boy's soul," she concludes, with endless sadness, and her voice finally fades into silence.

Said silence reigns in the little house for a long time, and only the winds, screeching and twisting fill the void of the moment. The rain has stopped. Accacia Summervault finishes her tea, but I do not even as much as touch mine, my stomach sick. And though I do not yet know exactly what had happened to Tom during these eleven days, I can surely tell it must have been enough to make a monster out of anyone. Especially one without a supportive family to help them recover.

"You should go," Accacia suddenly says, and I simply nod in agreement. Stepping outside, I take a deep breath of fresh air and try to pull myself together.

_The stars look fairly dim tonight_, Firenze would have said.

* * *

Back at Hogwarts, my mind is a dark mess of sickness, fear, violence and regret.

_Get a bloody grip, Harry. You've seen some sick, sick things in your lifetime. You can't afford to let this get to you. You came here to try and help the kid, not be inclined stare at him in horrified, pitying awe._

I walk through the same, familar corridors but feel myself a thousand miles away from reality, slightly scared and strangely empty.

And yet, I know that I can not stop now, not until I get to see exactly what has happened to the boy. These eleven days, they were the decisive point in time when Voldemort was first born, when the great gears of destiny began working their way to war, and death, and terror.

And so I** have** to know, or else there is nothing I could possibly do for Riddle but murder him and free him of what he's become. I just have to know, and the only way for me to find that memory, see it, feel it, that chronicle of pain, is to look for it in the only place it still exists.

Tom Riddle's very own, diseased, mind.

Spiffy.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't Harry Potter. Ginny Weasley does. But I don't like her enough, so I'm pairing him up with Riddle anyway.

A/N: Because it has been asked for by some reviewers (and I love reviewers and thus respect their wishes the best I can), this chapter is going to start off with some comic relief for you, in the form of Grindledore, before the plot leads us tp the most disturbing point of the story up to now: the actual memory of the well incident. Brace yourselves.

I would like to add a few of my thoughts on traumatic incidents, because I noticed that many comments discussed the theme of trauma. What I believe is that, in the HP fandom, non-con is not only being overdone, but also done wrongly. This is normal seeing how young and sexually inexperienced many writers are, but the result is that I have become allergic to non-con as a plot device. The same applies to the use of domestic violence as source of PTSD, with all these exaggerated Dursleys-are-monsters fics. Therefore, I wanted to produce something different, deeper, more meaningful and truly traumatic. In that, it helped that I have absolutely fucked up dreams. I also needed a trauma that would both explain a sense of betrayal, an insane fear of death and decay, and a premature killer instinct. This is how the well incident was born.

**WARNINGS: This chapter's last half is rated very, very M**. WILL INCLUDE: cannibalism, gangrene, decaying flesh and the very damaged mind of mr Tom Riddle. The story will get cheerier from now on though, I promise.

To Rubedo: Yes please, be my beta! But I am not moving the author's notes away from here. N-uh.

* * *

Chapter 10

Albus' PoV

It is Sunday morning, and what I love doing on Sunday mornings is read books while eating things with a lot of sugar on them. But as I sit myself down behind my desk, with a thick, yellowed tome entitled "Egyptian Transfiguration during the reign of Ramses II, by Guillaume L. Bokhataria" and a silver plate full of strawberry cupcakes in front of me, I hear the familiar chirping of my fiery companion.

Fawkes flies into the room, dropping the letter right onto the icing of my cakes, and from his teasing glare I can tell this blasted bird does it on purpose, too. I project happy and grateful feelings towards him nonetheless, because hell hath no fury like a Phoenix scorned. Then I grab the letter, lick all the icing I can save, and open it clumsily and hastily, recognising in the choice of expensive German parchment my former lover.

_Dearest Albus_

_I would be rejoiced to join you next month for the Christmas celebrations, although if I had to pick the religion that best appeals to me on an aesthetical and spiritual level, I think that I would much rather go with Odinsm. Nonetheless, I'd be willing to even celebrate the fact the sun rises everyday, if only to see you glow as you do when in a festive mood._

_As far as the housewarming gift goes, I am not sure I can achieve all that you are asking of me, but a large portion of your requests will soon make it to the Prophet's front page, I believe. "Dark Lord disbands own army for unknown reasons. Is later spotted smuggling quality German lemon drops into the United Kingdom. More on page 5, including, why is Grindelwald wearing mittens?" I imagine, or something similar. And though I am not quite sure why I would so easily throw away more than a decade's hard work, the thought appeals to me. I guess I get bored easily, because of that narcissistic personality of mine. Which I just know you love._

_Which leads me to, thank Merlin for your non-sequiturs dearest Albus, for I have really been wondering what had gone wrong with that new pain-enhancing potion I've been preparing. That is, until you kindly informed me for no particular reason that Chimaira teeth are more potent in potions when dried for three days after being coated with vinegar. But do not worry dear friend, and plague yourself nought with guilt, for I am not going to use the potion on anyone. Yet._

_I cannot give you the exact date of my arrival, since being chased by Aurors and disappointed followers will probably interfere with my meticulous planning. Expect me to appear unexpectedly._

_Looking forward to taking advantage of you again,_  
_yours,_  
_Gellert _

By the time I finish the letter, I realise I've swallowed without really chewing a dozen of cupcakes out of excitement, which makes me feel a bit like a schoolgirl. But I find that to be perfectly in character, so I do not worry. I could swear Fawkes is winking at me, but I know that Phoenixes can't wink, so it must be his telepathic prjections of emotion again. I hate it when he does that without warning. Like that time he started projecting being tickled when I was giving a speech at the Wizengamot, during which I ended up...

But I digress. What I should really be doing right now is reading my ancient tome on Egyptian Transfiguration and live up to my fame as a powerful and wise wizard. Although I think that beard alone seems to satisfy people as a proof of wisdom, lately. I summon a tea from Anna Lendescu's little cafe, again, and smirk as I read on.

Suddenly I think about Harry, and his mission. What a nice, brave boy, and what a hard war he has imposed upon himself. I have promised to help him the best I can, and perhaps I already have, in a strange, indirect way. Seeing as Grindelwald is perhaps the most popular role model of aspiring young Dark Lords, I feel that Gellert's wise choice of love over silly things such as world dominion might help Harry's cause as well. You know, shake that young Riddle up a bit. I sip some tea, and smile at a particularly endearing picture of a mummy.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

I do not join my conceited, babbling classmates for a meaningless, time-wasting trip to that graphic little village, Hogsmead, for this little habit is noisome and ungainly. In fact, I despise that annoying place that has litle more to offer other than cheap sweets and butterbeer, both designed to keep students from actually studying or doing anythign else equally useful during their week-ends. The main reason I do not join them though, is that being pleasant, popular and charming has been tiring for me lately, since the truth is that I am perhaps not in my best possible shape.

Since the horrible night of Friday, I have been experiencing vague, unpleasant flashbacks, the content of which I can not really understand, which cause my head to hurt and my magic to swirl protectively around me.

During Saturday, I will unfortunately have to admit, my behaviour was similar to a catatonic's, for I had to invest way too much effort simply to achieve getting out of bed and freeing myself from terrifying visions of some blurry past. Visions that I unfortunately still cannot comprehend, for that strange block within my memory remains unmoving, resisting all my attempts to explore whatever my mind is subconsciusly trying to protect me from. In a sense I am equally irritated and relieved by that fact, because although I desire to know what it is my magic is trying to point me towards, I am still not completely sure that it is the right time to discover it. Especially since I need to always be on guard against the manipulations of the green man.

_The green man_.

His eyes as furiously green as a hundred _Avada Kedavras_, and the exact shade, too. Re-examining our last, eventful encounter inside my head, I have been wondering about whether his question, which functioned a psychological trigger on me, had been a deliberate attack or an accidental one. Could it be that he somehow holds knowledge over that unclear incident from my past, and has been trying to use this against me, to melt me down and bend me to his will? Or was it simply a coincidence? I cannot yet be certain, but I will make sure to carefully look into it, because it is absolutely crucial that I understand exactly how much this wizard knows about me. And of course, I need to finally decipher this man's true intentions.

Sometimes I do wonder whether this tricky whoreson is actually being honest with me, and has truly come this far to offer me the chance to follow a different path than my destined one, for as far as he claims, although I would have become a powerful leader of the Dark, I would also have become disfigured, disrespected, mentally ill and, in the end, a victim of repeated, disgraceful murder. Perhaps his intervertion is actually meant to prevent me from having this sad end, which would admittedly be a waste of my natural charisma and magical talent, since, as I have mentioned before, if his motives were purely selfish, I do believe he would have simply thrown an Avada at me and be over with it.

And yet, in a world full of liars, deceivers and glory-hunters, scavengers and parasites ready to feed off anyone's potential success, how can one ever believe a stranger, especially one with a background as unclear and suspicious as the green man's?

Nevertheless, as much as I talk about his behaviour towards me in terms of attacking and manipulating, I still cannot manage to fully convince myself he should be seen as a foe and not a potential ally, for his power and seemingly boundless knowledge are greatly attractive to me. This divergence of opinions inside me adds further complication to my already un-simple mind, and drives me insane with paranoia and guesswork, while my terrorising flashbacks keep draining my concentration away.

* * *

I decide to walk to my personal haven of peace and information, that tends to be exceptionally empty during weekends; the library. As soon as I walk out of the Slytherin common room, however, I come face to face with the green man.

"I have come here to talk to you," he says smoothly, but the intensity of his stare is unsettling to me, especially since I am not in the most well-defended state of mind at the moment.

"What about?" I ask, pouring as much indifference as I can into my glacial voice. With a very slow, deliberately graceful movement, I tilt my chin upwards and I glare back into his eyes, as strongly and yet nonchalantly as I can.

"Would you like to take a walk with me at the shores of the Black Lake? The things I want to discuss are complicated. And also private," he replies, and I find that a bit alarming, suddenly imagining my corpse being dumped down the great cold body of water surrounding Hogwarts, never to be found again. Yet morbid interest gets the best of me, and I slowly and cautiously nod my agreement, following the man towards the exit of the old, weathered castle. Outside the air is fairly chilling, and I repress the tendency to shiver, while he and I walk, at first, in perfect, glacial silence.

"Tom Riddle, I want to cast Legillimency on you. I believe that you have the repressed memory of a greatly traumatic event residing in your mind, and I wish to find out about it, since I have come to believe that it must be what initially triggered your uncontrollable desire to inflict pain upon others. It will be painful for both of us if you fight me, so I am asking for permission," he suddenly says, and once again I find myself surprised at his overwhelming honesty, for it must be a crime being as straightfoward as he is when society demands cunning, discretion and subtlety.

_Or is perhaps his supposed bluntness simply an act, a feint over a feint, a crude persona to conceal an entirely different agenda? _

_I must find out._

I also note that he does know of a disturbing incident of some sort having occured during my earliest childhood, but he does not hold the amount information he actually desires to hold in order to deepen his understanding of my psyche. I deliberate for a moment, and then conlude that since he is such a powerful wizard, he can probably access my mind even if I decide to fight hard against the invasion, and that giving him a permission is perhaps best, since that way I can also begin to earn his trust.

* * *

"Go ahead. Tread carefully, for you will not find a welcoming environment," I mutter darkly, and suddenly my own fear of discovering what horrors that have actually been inflicted upon me grips me and causes my chest to tighten considerably and my lips to dry.

But before I have the time to ponder about it, I feel an intrusion of great momentum crashing against the outskirts of my otherwise well-fortified mind. First a memory of myself eating next to my foster host, that disgusting, filthy muggle comes to the surface. It is shoved aside by Potter's strong will, and followed by an image of me the day the abhorrent man came and took me away, my eyes indifferent and cold as he pulled me by the hand.

Further back, the green man digs, while I can only passively re-live the memories he comes across. So now I am five years old and an older boy is trying to intimidate me. I let him approach me and try to engage me in a physical fight, so that I find the right moment to stab him on the shoulder with a small shard of glass. The boy falls letting a scream out, and I feel pleasure surging. The glass I then magically destroy, and I walk away smiling, knowing that he will be unable to prove I did anything to him, and basking in my own pride. It ends and the mind assaulting mine dwelves deeper and deeper in me, pushing aside worthless, petty memories of my odourless, meaningless childhood.

I feel the green man dig and dig, until he falls right onto that blockage, that insurmountable psychological wall he has been looking for, and I feel him force himself upon my defenses, brutally ripping his way into the darkest compartments of my mind. It is not easy, and though I initially feel but a sharp pain, it soon evolves into screaming agony, as the walls of my sanity are torn down and forever lost. He pushes and pushes and pushes, further in, and I can feel him suffering as well, which serves him right, his mind bending against my unwilling resistances, but eventually everything crumbles likes a sandcastle, and he and I both find ourselves, our struggling consciousness', floating in a great cold void, a desert of distance and denial.

In the middle of it lies a memory, and Potter reaches out for it stubbornly and grabs it to himself.

We both plunge.

* * *

**_When we first go down the well, there is a rope ladder, and the older boys, waiting for us outside, assure us that this is where the magical book is rumored to be hidden. Erik and I are both excited, feeling that we are doing something mystical, forbidden, under the unexpected guidance of the older boys, who would normally never favour us with so much attention. And then, when we both find ourslves at the bottom of the old, abandned well, the ropes are pulled up, abruptly and cruelly. Laughter is heard, but it reaches our ears as a distorted echo, due to the well's great depth. _**

**_I freeze, a sinking feeling taking over, as I realise that something very dangerous is happening. Erik seems terrified as well. _**

**_It is dark down here, humid, full of insects and fungi, and the water goes up to our thighs. I shout something upwards, begging for them to stop teasing us, but no ladder is thrown down and all I can see is the laughing black silhouettes several meters above, that now seem inhuman, even monstrous. One of them seems to lean in, laughing even harder, and suddenly I am showered in urine, and feel tears coming up to my eyes, tears of fear, shame and horror. Erik is petrified and says nothing. I shout some more, I insult them, and then beg them, and then threaten them, and at some point I eventually realise they have already left, and that my noises are useless. Our eyes soon get used to the darkness, and looking up begins to be painful._**

**_"I am scared. But the ladies are going to come and find us, right?" Erik says all of a sudden, his voice weak and faltering. _**

**_I reassure him the best I can, trying to calm my own self down. But time passes and nothing happens, even as we both scream for help as loud as we can, until our throats are sore and bleeding. This is when the fear of death first grips me, and the certainty that people are there just to abandon you, like my own mother did. Erik is sobbing quietly, and the cold is making him shiver. The smell of mould fills my nostril and I begin to feel nauseous, the world around me turning and darkening._**

**_ Hours pass. We start shouting again, even more desperately this time, pleading with God and the older boys and even Santa Claus, but we eventually run out of voice, and Erik starts crying once more, exhausted and hungry. I realise that I myself feel hungry, but chase the feeling away as fast as I can. _**

**_What I cannot chase away is the sensation of my skin becoming increasingly wet, shrinking, shrivelling and dying on me, making me feel sick. But the water is up to our thighs, and we can do nothing to keep our legs out of it, as torturing as it begins to be. Silence reigns, and darkness, and despair while a few more hours pass, and we both lose our sense of time. Our eyes fully adjucted to the darkness, we even feel blinded by the pallid, gentle light of sunset, before the night sets in. Erik cries. For the first time, so do I. We try to sleep, but we can't, for we are standing up, and we are wet, cold, hungry and terrified. All of a sudden sitting or lying down feels like a distant dream, a luxury, as I begin to no longer feel my wet, aching legs. No longer able to hold myself, I let my urine flow between my legs, momentarily pleased by its warmth._**

**_Erik shouts for hours when the morning comes, so much that his vocal cords are ripped, and he can no longer do much more than whisper in despair. I lift a rock and hit the walls of the well as hard as I can, although I am somehow sure it will amount to nothing, and a sense of fatality is settling in my heart. The light of day begins to fade once more, and we are choked by the darkness and the sickening smell of our own excrements. My stomach is increasingly painful, twisting, grumbling and protesting, and I look at Erik's lips, that are becoming blue. He is now mumbling incoherently, feverishly, as his pee is trickling down his thigh and into the water, shivering and convulsing. _**

**_We are going to die, it occurs to me, and I start whimpering and hitting the stone wall with my fists until they bruise and bleed. Then there is silence. _**

**_More hours pass. I look down at my legs and see that the upper layers of my skin are beginning to peel off. I screech, but it is not really out of pain, for my limbs are cold and numb, as much as it is out of fear and horror, because this is my flesh, and it is coming off like tapestry on a wall. I try to avoid looking down again._**

**_At the end of our fourth day, Erik begins to lose his mind, and starts humming nursery rhymes, which somehow scares me so much that tears trail down my face again. He hums, in his destroyed, ghostly voice, and hums on for what seems to be hours. I am hungry, and scared, and the world is suddenly a horrible, unfair place that I do not want to be in. _**

**_I want to be inside my mother's warm, safe body, resting, without worries, memories, thoughts. I look at my friend again, and now he is mumbling about food, and chewing on some mould, his eyes delirious and glassy, his skin bluish and shining. I only want this to be over. I don't care how, I just want this to end. At some point I regurgitate something, stomach acids most likely, and my throat is burned by it, so I scream, but before I close my mouth I puke again, and it is excrutiatingly painful. The smell of our bodily waste inside the still water is so sickening that I can barely hold myself back from throwing up a third time, and yet that is the water I have to drink, for there is no other water, and without water I will die. _**

**_At some point I pass out, still standing. _**

**_Then I experience hallucinations, auditory, visual, all kinds of them, all horrible and heinous, all about death, decomposition. Erik and I have a few insects on us as well, and they slowly fill our skin with blisters, wounds, spots. My legs feel like they are about to fall off my body and I am so terrorized that I cannot even cry anymore._**

**_Hours pass. Dozens of them, filled with waking nightmares, hallucinations, pain, and the cold, the merciless cold. _**

**_And suddenly Erik screams loudly. _**

**_"I must eat," he says, and lunges at me, but I barely see him because my vision is blurred and distant, my mind numb from pain. It is his teeth that I feel, digging into the humid flesh of my trembling hand deeply, in an attempt to bite off a chunk of meat._**

**_ I freeze, flooded with adrenaline, and suddenly my vision and mind become crystal clear, and all my being is focused on this moment, frozen in time. Erik is eating my hand. _**

**_He is eating. My. Hand. _**

**_A dark gust of magic is unleashed, swirling around me, and I feel my body controlled not by me, but by a dark, nameless instict; a need to survive. Kicking the weak boy back, ignoring the gaping wound on my hand and the hot gushing blood, I lift the heavy rock I'd using against the well walls, and hit Erik on the head with all the power my body can offer, and some more. The gust of magic dissolves, and once again I feel weak, dizzy and diseased. In front of me a dead body is floating, while my mutilated hand falls useless by my side. Hours pass. I am sure my legs are beginning to decompose by now. _**

**_Hours pass._**

**_It won't hurt him now he is dead, I think to myself, and I have to eat some now anyway, before he begins to rot. These thoughts can't be my own, because Erik was my friend, and I should be mourning and crying and grieving, but I can't. I can only think about life, death, food, water. With my one functional hand I bring the carcass closer to me, and lean in, sinking my teeth into the raw flesh. The blood doesn't taste as bad as I had expected, and it is also warm, such a huge relief for my hypothermic body. The fact alone that something is entering my stomach fills me with a wild, dark, instinctive joy._**

**_So I eat some more, until I once again feel sick, so sick that I could die any moment, even right now. Hours pass. Visions. Wetness. Freezing cold. Hours pass. Pain. Nausea. Blood. Hours pass. The body of Erik is begining to turn green, and I am simply upset because my food source is gone, unable to feel any sadness, any horror. _**

**_Hours pass. I lose consciousness. _**

**_I should be dead from the cold. Or from fear. It is only my magic that is keeping me alive, and nothing more._**

**_Hours pass._**

**_Hours pass, hours pass, hours pass, hours pass. _**

* * *

Potter pulls out.

I am frozen in place, tears streaming down my wide, empty eyes. And suddenly a glamour is lifted, and it reveals a long hideous scar on my left hand. And my legs suddenly feel unnaturally smooth and hairless. The two smaller toes of my right foot cease to be acknowledged by my brain, and suddenly I know that down there there's merely two little stubs, made purely out of scar tissue. I open my mouth to scream, but I don't, so my mouth remains wide open, emitting no sound. Then I fall onto my knees. Potter kneels next to me, and takes me into his arms.

"Your magic... has been trying to protect you from this. An accidental, subconscious glamour, many years old... A self-obliviate. It all makes sense. Your fear of death, your sense of betrayal, your disgust. It finally makes sense," he murmurs into my ear, but I am still frozen, irresponsive, soundless, for my mind refuses to acknowledge the reality of this experience, the roots of my savage, heartless nature.

"Come on, Riddle. You can face it, accept it, and move on. You are strong, we both know that," he adds, and his somewhat fatherly tone suddenly wakes up a wave of anger in me, and I stand up, my eyes blazing, my body trembling.

And then it feels like someone else, not me -self-restrained, blasé, perfect me-, is shouting through my mouth, someone enraged and scared, but yearning to be healed.

"He was eating me! _Eating me_! I opened my eyes and he was eating me! And I killed him, and he was just floating there, and I ate his own flesh in return. I ate it. Like a beast would. I did that. Me," I begin to yell incoherently, unable to control the shock I have just received. "And I saw my skin fall off. Decaying. It was my flesh! It was falling off! And the bugs were eating me alive! I was dying! I was dying," I continue, the pitch of my voice higher and higher, and I know I am experiencing a panic attack of some sort, for I collapse to the ground, suddenly feeling heavily disoriented.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the prodigy student Riddle is letting me know that ..._this type of shock is perfectly natural after the removal of a long-standing memory charm or a similarly well-established mental-structural spell, and typically lasts up to a few hours; healers are advised to..._

Once again he kneels besides me, and leans in towards me, and I hate him for making me live through this again, because I would rather die a miserable, pathetic Dark Lord a thousand times than be forced to carry this terrifying, humiliating memory with me once again. But now the glamour is gone, and my body will forever be a sign of these days when I lost my humanity.

"I saw my parents die when I was one. At that age, I also survived a killing curse, which forever scarred me. I grew up with hateful, neglecting muggles, miserable and alone. At the age of eleven my teacher tried to kill me, and I had to watch a man's hands burning and falling off. At twelve I was bitten by a Basilisk, which I then killed as a friend of mine lay dying before me. At thirteen I faced a horde of Dementors, a werewolf and an escaped Azkaban convict. At fourteen I saw a classmate die in front of me, and my blood was forcefully used in a Dark ritual. I was also forced to see the ghosts of my parents coming out of their killer's wand."

"At fifteen I witnessed my godfather being killed by an insane witch, and along with a few friends I had to battle a whole army of dark wizards in a terrifying room full of prophecies. I was also forced to carve a sentence onto my own arm, and became possessed by a Dark Lord at some point. At sixteen I experienced my only remaning father figure fall under the wand of someone I had thought my ally."

"At seventeen I led a war, and saw many of my loved ones savagely killed because of me. And although I won the war, a new war came when I was twenty-two, and what I saw there I could never even attempt to describe. I lost the woman I loved to my war obligations, and I witnessed my best friend under a full-body skinning curse. If someone, anyone in the whole world has a small chance of understanding you Riddle, that is me, We have a history, after all, " he finally says, in a calm, endlessly sad voice, and all of a sudden I feel a strange relief flooding me, because although I don't know his real name or where he comes from, I finally begin to grasp what he is, and what he is trying to do.

My mind is full of questions.

_Does he believe that by hugging me and telling me it will be alright he can undo what I am? Is he that naïve? He cannot be.._

_Then why...?_

_Where are the limits between nurture and predisposition?_

_Is this a thing I can shed? But, most importantly, why would I want to change? I don't. I am fine. I am better. I am stronger. This is who I am. No trauma did this to me. No pain made me into this. This is me, and it can't be cured._

_But he..._

_Who is he, who is he really? What he just said... Can these claims be true? How much like me is he? Does he understand?__I..._

Flooded with flashing thoughts and bursting with inquiries, my head hurts more and more, until, still hazy and shaky from the intensity of the mind-diving spellwork, I feel my vision blur and darken and my chest fall.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Rowling is making millions out of Harry Potter. I have to miss a meal in order to feed my dogs. Any questions?

A/N: Sorry for the fact that I missed an update, but that last chapter was very hard to write and I was very drained afterwards. I am also very happy to have gotten such approving feedback on my description of the incident, believe me it was very hard to do! Now we will have the immense pleasure of finally witnessing some healing.

To Memys: I did think long and hard about whether to put this in the horror section or not. But in the end, the horror will still be a small part in the overall story compared to the psychological drama. So although I do agree that my latest chapters have been very horror-oriented, I still wouldn't say so about the whole fic. I'd say the general mood of the fic is that of the song Charis by Elend. If you know what I mean. Which I am not even sure I do.

To Barranca: Good question. I am actually doing something in between. I have already a couple of plot devices I have decided to incorporate, but I do mainly improvise along the way. It's like saying that I know my sentence needs to have "candy" and "cat" in it, but I'll find out how to make these two work as I go along.

To the future Mrs Riddle: Yes, I did screw that up. I am ashamed. But at least I know why I screwed it up, and it's because I was one of those kids that had their birthday halfway through the academic year so at the end of each year I was already a year older. But you are absolutely right, when Harry killed the Basilisk it was the 29th of May, and he only turned 13 in July. I should have known that

To Pouf: I do love your canon version of Riddle's steadily diclining psychology, and agree with most of that analysis, including the fact that in Rowling's books he is probably suffering from congenital psychopathy, magnified by his rather eerie backround. I thank you for appreciating my plausible stray-from-canon, I am sure you understand that without an even mildly redeemamble Riddle I could not actually go forth and write this story, and thus had to give him a trauma strong enough to have triggered such a psychological devastation. Also, your co-authored HP story is brilliant.

* * *

Chapter 11

Harry's PoV

He cries at me, his voice broken and his eyes wild as he stares at the deep scar marring his velvet skin, and shouts in terror. And suddenly, I know that it is time for me, after I've pushed him so hard, digged so brutally into his mind, to offer something back to him and show him just how wrong he is. I kneel next to him and calmly tell him of my parents' death, of Quirrel, of Dementors, of Ginny and Cedric, of Sirius and the War, of my own scars, my own unhealed wounds and my own burdens.

He listens to me, and slowly the crazed features of his face soften, as he finally begins to understand at least part of my hithero unknown motives. I can tell he believes me, because a heretofore unseen emotion appears in his eyes, and even though I get but a short glimpse of it, I think it is relief. Then, Riddle faints.

I take him into my arms, partially unable to still now despise him for crimes he has not yet commited, now that I have seen, I have experienced the terrible moments that robbed him of much his empathy and his trust in mankind. My thoughts are mingled. And as I look down at his consciousless, serene form, I no longer see a younger Voldemort, but a damaged, abandoned boy hating the cruel and unfair world he was born into. His beauty is unearthly and he looks lost, like he clearly does not belong.

_This is Voldemort, then? _

_Not a born monster, not an innate evil, but a terrified, hurt, unstable kid?_

_Or, most probably, a bit of both, _I remark, shaking off my tendency too be much too noble-minded and gullible, even after all my years in the battlefield.

Until he regains his senses, I stay immobile, and the memories I have just witnessed inside his mind flash once again through mine. I feel angry towards fate for having inflicted this upon him, for having not given him the chance to evolve into a healthy human being, or at least as healthy as he could have possibly been, for having forced him to stain his hands in blood when his heart was still so tender.

This blasted hero-complex kicks in again, and I get the urge to protect Riddle from the cruelty of life, and try to offer him the things he never had the chance to enjoy as a child. Perhaps, his prematurely lost innocence and joyless childhood remind me of mine, and I decide that it is my responsibility, seeing as I was the one who forced him to acknowledge the depth of his psychological wounds and thus devastated him completely, to take him under my wing. I was always the sort of guy that takes in strays.

It is at that moment though that I realise I do not only wish for Riddle to avoid becoming Voldemort, something motived simply by self-interest. I also want him to generally thrive, and find himself a fulfilling path and become, if not happy, it least content. It doesn't exactly make sense that I should wish for that, but I think that my hours-long stay inside his mind does explain why I would be identifying with him so much.

I almost forget that his tainted, twisted soul is already able to commit murder, capable of everything he has done to me in the future, already filled with visions of dominance through bloodshed. I almost forget that no one is innocent here but the newborn babes, and that is a dangerous thing to forget.

_And that perhaps there is much more to his evil than simply the reaction of a viciously smart child to cruel, life-wrecking trauma; perhaps he is by nature, down to his very core, irreversibly devoid of any capacity for empathy and compassion. How could I know?_

Finally he opens his eyes, looks up to me, a little horrified to have fallen into my arms, and he snarls in evident disdain.

* * *

"I think I should become your guardian," I gently tell him as soon as his eyes flick open, these broken, hollow puddles of blue. The winds are hurling and the Hogwarts lake is cold and black as sun begins to set. I feel a little guilty to suggest this now, in a moment when his resistances are the lowest they could be. He looks at me disbelievingly, even fearufully. He slowly retreats from me, and sits a few feet away, his hands still trembling and his body still shivering, less than before, however.

"Why?" he asks, with a voice strangely flat, incredulous. He still does not trust me, I notice, and I understand, because it will certainly take a while for him to trust anything or anyone again. After all, he did say he would rather die a miserable, disfigured wizard with a splintered soul than have to carry this newly unlocked memory, and in that sense, I have hurt him deeply. There's still some hate drawn on his handsome face, and there is still disgust.

"Because I do not think there is anyone that knows you more than me, right now," I reply, defiantly, daring him to disagree and prove me otherwise.

Only I know he can't, because he is so utterly alone in this world. He squints his eyes just a bit, and appears to be fairly vexed at my assumption, in spite of the fact he chooses not to contradict me. He is tired and drained, I realise, he cannot fight back as savagely as he would have liked to, and so it is my chance to pull him closer than he would have ever let me. Oh Merlin, how cynical I have come to sound.

"Only someone you don't look down on could possibly help you. And in that sense I believe myself to be appropriate. After all, I cannot be a worse choice than your current foster father, since you appear to hate him more than all of Gryffindor put together," I add, and I try to keep my voice factual, flat. If I succeed in this that I am trying to do, I will have made a significant step forward. But the dark smirk that is forming on his face, distorting once again his features into a mask of enmity and resentment.

"Yes, you can be. And you are. All the harm he can possibly inflict upon me is only ever superficial, is only ever artificial. There is nothing he can do to me, he or anyone of his repugnant kind, nothing I am already not completely immune to. But you, you belong to an entirely different kind, and you have the ability to give me tangible pain, and all the right reasons to desire revenge. You might have been intelligent enough to tap into my unfortunate vulnerabilities, but I am still not destroyed enough to put myself in the wolf's mouth willingly," he spits back at me, and the frail, breathetakingly beautiful boy lying in my arms just a moment ago is once again a shell of contempt and anathema.

_Damn swift recovery there, Riddle._

I did not honestly believe it would have been that easy, so I show no disappointment.

"As you wish." I reply coolly to his enraged rejection, and I get up. The savage wind is blowing my hair away, and the sky is darkening for the upcoming night. A grey sky tinged with purpe, a perfect twilight of Gods. I extend my hand towards Riddle, who is still sitting on the humid grass, and strangely he takes it without a word. I pull him up. Standing right in front of me, just a a foot away, he glares right into my eyes and I cannot identify what is going through his magnificent but horrible mind.

All I know is he took my hand, and despite his virulent verbal rejection, the miniscule acceptance hidden in this gesture means more than anything that could come out of his mouth. Silently, we walk back to Hogwarts. Before our roads diverge, he casts a powerful glamour over his scarred hand and whispers lowly: "This one is for your eyes only."

He then walks away, and leaves me completely bewildered, completely unable to understand why he would possibly say what he just said. Even as damaged as he is, as tired and worn, he is still exquisitely unpredictable.

* * *

Albus' PoV

Harry walks into my office looking flustered and dazed, but also pensive and serious. All at once. I decide that it is perhaps wise to offer him a lemon drop, which he gladly if distractedly accepts. I offer him a seat as well, and we start talking while Fawkes is cheerfully gutting a big grey rat. The young man tells me of Tom's unpleasant experiences, and even I, despite my very own collection of bad memories, shudder at Potter's colourful descriptions.

No wonder my teaching assistant would look as shaken as he does after witnessing the incident he has been describing, I reason, and rapidly swallow a few more sweets. The green-eyed man then moves into explaining Riddle's strange consequent behaviour, his violent refusal to be taken under Potter's custody and the seemingly contradictory gestures that followed. I listen to all of it with great interest, scartching my beard as I usually do when I want to look serious and throughtful, and even Fawkes puts a halt to his dinner in order to have a piece of the story.

"You know Harry, my boy, when someone doesn't know how to say yes, perhaps the best he can do is.. say no and mean yes," I note at some point, and the young man archs an eyebrow a little disbelievingly, but looks pleased at my words, if not hopeful. I deduce than he has come to care for that problem-ridden boy, and I am sure it's for the best. Then the young man changes the courses of the conversation completely by asking me a very difficult question.

"I've been wondering, Albus, how come I still exist unchanged since my actions must have already greatly affected the future? Having altered the course of history quite a bit already, one would expect my own existance to be substantially affected," he inquires, and I find the question exsquisitely tasteful, especially since I have a little theory of my own on the subject, and I love analysing my theories with every given opportunity.

Pushing my glasses back, I smile at Harry and pass the goblet of lemon drops to him. He picks one, absent-mindedly, and waits for my reply.

"I have an idea of my own on why this might not be occuring. You see, what I believe is that... Well, it is a little complicated, but I will put it that way. When one travels by time-turner, their consciousness is simply thrown back in time, and is still tied to the event of their birth is with a cause and effect relationship. Therefore, if one cancels the event of their birth, complex situations arise. It will be as if one changes a timeline as to no longer leave an entry point for themselves. But my theory is that you have travelled back in a different way. I believe that during your strange dream, your consciousness actually left this timeline completely. In a sense, I believe you died, or at least became non-existent in relation to this timeline. Then, your consciousness was re-inserted at an entirely different entry point," I explain, and Harry nods, understanding what I have said so far it seems, but still quite confused about what I am trying to lead up to.

"Now, this is how I believe it works. A time-turner user still has only one valid entry point into a timeline: his birth. All other travelling occurs back and forth within that timeline. Thus, his existence in the timeline is still causally related to his birth. But you, dear Harry, have two valid points of entry into life, having travelled in an entirely different way. Therefore, having had your consciousness leave this timeline and enter it once again, you are no longer causally tied to the event of your birth. Which means that if the alterations you bring to this timeline cancels that event, your existence will still not be threatened. Instead, it will have been as if you were, in a sense, born for the first time in 1940, as a 25 year old man. Which sounds bizarre, but is not as uncommon as you might think. After all, a man developing a multiple personality disorder does bring a new consciousness into a lifetime without any event of biological birth having occurred," I conclude, and Potter seems to be very perplexed, and he scratches the back of his head pensively.

He is obviously thinking over my words before something dawns to him, and he smiles broadly at me.

"Alright. I think I get it," he says cheerily, and I am very proud of him, because to be honest, even I don't really get it. If I ever wanted a son, it would probably be someone like Harry, I think fondly, and Fawkes swallows a rat liver. Then I start thinking about Gellert, evidently. Maybe we should adopt a child, one day.

Well, maybe not.

* * *

Riddle's PoV.

It is Sunday night, and the loud and arrogant Slytherin boys are playing some sort of drinking game with a few bottles of smuggled firewhiskey. As I slide into the common room, they encourage me to join in, but I just hiss something about unflattering plebeian activites and braincell necrosis induced by alcohol and walk right past them.

Alone in my room collapse to the bed, trying to shield my mind from the persistent invasion of my gruesome memories, these new, alien, repulsive images of my own loss of humanity. The little voice inside my head whispers and murmurs and grunts and screams and hisses and moans and screeches, so I bring my hands up to my head in silent pain, desperetaly trying to chase it away.

Suddenly, I feel the urgent need to take my clothes off, which I do, a sick feeling building up in me as I remove my right sock. I stare at the two little stubs coldly, distantly, detachedly, trying to shut my emotions off completely, and I accept the pain as it comes, calmly and bravely. My legs are toned and well-built, but their surface is unnaturally smooth, hairless, a definite sign that quite a few layers of skin were destroyed here once upon a time, and I caress them in equal horror and amazement. I then cast a few skillful glamours, and fully erase the signs of suffering from the canvas of my body, my chest feeling tight and my thoughts conflicted. The image of the green man, extending his strong hand towards me, somehow haunts the back of my troubled mind, and I try to push it away in vain.

With his cursed green eyes, he sees me for the monster I am; but he also sees further than that, further than even I ever did, into the roots of me, into the very depths of me, and before his hard but gentle stare I feel naked, vulnerable, revealed. I both appreciate him and loathe him for that, because my life will never again be dull now that he has so forcefully invaded it, but also never again be easy, and because now I realise that there is a price to pay for meeting someone of my caliber.

My thoughts stray back to the well incident, and to the older boys, laughing, mocking, full of jealousy and resentment, and a gigantic wave of hatred rips my heart apart, because if it weren't for them, maybe I could have had something closer to a normal childhood. Maybe I could have been one of the hoi polloi, a common young man, with my healthy dreams and trivial ambitions, with my petty little friends and pathetic crushes, oblivious to the smallness of my life, content. Suddenly, all those I have since always hated, I also envy.

_Why can't a game of exploding snap make me smile? Why can't I find pleasure in chocolate, in laughter, in a kiss? Why this hatred, this hollowness, always, at every turn?_

For a brief moment, I ponder upon self-obliviation, but very soon I decide against it, for knowledge, even painful knowledge, is always a form of power, and in this case a weapon to unlocking myself, my needs, my distorted psyche. I thus keep this hideous memory tucked deep inside me, loathed for what it represents, but treasured for the understanding that it brings. I bring my long, elegant fingers to my left hand, tracing the scar underneath the glamour, a reminder of my own monstrosity, of the grotesque birth of Voldemort, but also a strange bond to Potter, a shared secret.

Eerily enough, I feel like a piece of my soul is with him, within him even, because in spite of our no-love-lost relationship, the only sort of relationship I could ever have, we are in this together, and in that sense, he truly is the closest to me anyone has ever been.

The thought enrages me.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Tom Riddle isn't mine either. Nor is Albus Dumbledore. Or Gellert Grindelwald for that matter. Are you beginning to see the pattern? Creepy huh?

A/N: Did any of you actually expect Riddle to accept Harry Potter's offer of custody? This battle is not going to be won so easily. So no need to worry, Rubedo dearest, I am not going to just throw them into each other's arms with no good reason. It's just not my style. I am all for long, hard roads.

To NougatEvolution: Actually I have more in mind than just explaining why the grandfather paradox hasn't affected Harry yet. It's only that I am not yet sure whether I will use this plot device or not. I just needed to have the theoretical foundations ready. About Elend's Charis... Well, I listen to it in repeat for hours when I write, it makes sense it would actually suit my writing style. Elend's Wake of the Angel also makes a good side song; I mean, it does open with "I am the eyes of the Basilisk", how much more suitable could it be?

Furthermore, as you can see this is the second chapter I write in one day, so please be lenient with typos and such. I am afraid that if I write any slower, my inspiration will forever be lost, like sand between my fingers. I am eventually, and soon enough, going to re-edit all this mess, but first I need to get it all out of my system, regurgitate it now, while it's still all crystal clear inside my mind.

A small note on timetables, for nitpicker freaks only: In my imaginary third year of 1940, students have a Transfiguration lesson 3 times a week. On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, to be exact. The reason that during Harry's first week in the past he only had two lessons with Riddle was because he arrived on a Monday evening, and therefore missed the Monday class.

* * *

Chapter 12

Riddle's PoV

Breakfast in the Great Hall is the same annoying ordeal it usually is, with emptyheaded children producing senseless noise, gossip and general auditory garbage, all amidst clinging forks and breaking plates; a mess of Howlers, giggles, flirting, tears and then some other meaningless little tragedies. My stomach refuses to allow any nutrients in, so I push my plate away from myself in disgust, feeling uncomfortable and irritated, a real outsider in this hideous carnaval of immaturity and emotional outbursts, for which I feel only scorn and contempt.

I cannot even bother putting up my usual act, my usual mask; smiling at the students that fancy me as to keep their interest alive, chatting with the Slytherins, these worms that think they are snakes, and exchanging a few sarcastic pleasantries with the Gryffindors or the Ravenclaws. Instead, too tired of this meaningless exercise in social etiquette and manipulation, I show myself as he really is, gazing over the world indifferently, detachedly, erasing all traces of friendliness from my handsome face. The other students, in spite of their moronic ignorance and cheerful stupidity, their gigantic inferiority shining in all it's appaling glory, do notice a tangible difference, and a catch a few glances of worry and concern.

They probably think I am upset over something, or sad, I deduce and I can't help but inwardly laugh at their innocent assumption; they would never understand that what I am right now is just me. Only a pair of eyes looks at me without childish curiosity, without silly concern, worry or desire; and it is a pair of green eyes, steady and bright, from the far end of the Hall and right into me.

All lessons seem to pass in a breeze, for I needn't even break a sweat, I needn't even be mentally present in order to answer all questions and fulfill all tasks I am presented with. So once again, I am showered with enthusiastic compliments, eyed with admiration and envy, pointed at as a model student and followed as an exampled, a standing ovation during which my mind is barely there, most of it lost in the dark folds of my twisted past. A great clock in ticking inside my head, counting down to my Transfiguration class, to the next event of any actual importance to me that is, and it ticks and ticks while I watch life flow by uninterested.

* * *

When I walk into Double-dope's classroom, I am immediately told by the meddling old fool to join Potter in the neighbouring classroom, so I quietly take leave and walk to the otherwise empty room. There I find him, sitting on a desk with an inebriant, intoxicating magical aura surrounding his strong body, and as soon as I come in, his eyes, steady and bright, nail themselves on me. He hops off the desk, and approaches me in a simple, bold manner that feels nothing like the Slytherin predatorship I am used to, his lips ever so slightly curving into a smile.

"How are you feeling today, mr Riddle?" he asks, and although his voice is void of sarcasm and perhaps even concerned, I decide that he simply **must** be mocking me, for he knows full well how unpleasant these days have been for me. How dare he, this arrogant, foolish man, ask me such a preposterous question, as if he hadn't witnessed my agony, my devastation, I think to myself, and I can't help but grow offended, if not infuriated.

"Better than the time I was forced to eat my childhood companion, if that alleviates your worries," I bite back venomously, stressing every word, and I have a seat in front of the young man, who flinches a bit at the cruelty of my reply, as I gladly observe.

"Although I must admit that recently I have been feeling something... missing. Perhaps my two toes. Or a few layers of skin off my legs. But that's just a wild guess. I might have been marginally better if some people had not chosen to bring these details to my attention so thoughtlessly," I continue with unfaltering poison tainting my voice, somehow turning my own horror into hatred, presumably because I am only too used to hating. I am unsure of the reason myself, but somehow I suddenly feel the need to take my anger out on the green man, and although I know that I seem to be accusing him of an event for which he is not the slightest bit responsible, I cannot control this irrational urge, and so I throw at him a glare of furious resentment and enmity.

I see him cringe a little more, and this time I am not actually satisfied by that, because I can tell I am being neither logical nor self-disciplined. Then his eyes begin to shine dangerously, and I can tell he is irritated by my behaviour, his squared jaw clenching and his eyebrows frowing ever so slightly.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, has it ever occured to you that when I look at you I see the murderer of my parents and the man that threw an _Avada_ at me when I was still an infant? And that I also discern the killer of many of my friends and classmates, and generally a twisted, cruel creature that is responsible for my entire life having been drenched in blood and death? And I can tell that even right now, at the tender age of thirteen, you are fully capable of murder, of turning your wand against a newborn babe if that can help you attain immortalty," he suddenly says, and his voice is threateningly low, deeper than it usually sounds, richer, and also very, very cold.

_Is he right? As things stand now, would I thoughtlessly kill an infant if it would help me further my goals? Yes. Yes, I probably would, _I think detachedly.

He approaches me even further, leaning towards me so that our faces are but inches apart, and for a moment I fear for myself a little, as pathetic as that is, wondering if he is perhaps having second thoughts on disposing of me in a easy and swift manner, and paling at the thought. Yet I cannot help but having occur to me that this man grew up as an orphan because of me, and that I therefore inflicted upon him, in a sense, the very same bleak past that shaped me into a hollow person, something which he could rightfully kill me for.

Only I am really not quite fond of the concept of death, for I am very tied with my consciousness, and I thus discover my hand fidgeting inside my robes, looking for a wand to grasp just in case this whole confrontation takes a rather unfortunately turn.

"If I, being the foolish Gryffindor that I am, can still manage to control my well documented anger, I am sure that you, a cool and collected Slytherin, can manage to not spitefully accuse me when I am certain you realise that I'm simply trying to be of help. It is really unbecoming, and unwise," he concludes, sharply, and I do unfortunately recognise he has a rather valid argument, and feel disappointed with my own silly outburst, for being a bitter and feebleminded loudmouth is very unlike me.

I am composed, and I am discreet and elegant, so this kind of behaviour is clearly unacceptable even to my own standards. To him I simply nod, trying to chase the outrage of having been so bluntly criticised, something which I am very obviously unused to, for I have never before lost my perfect composure, let alone been criticised about it.

"It was uncalled for," I respond quietly, in a forced factual tone, and this is perhaps the closest to an actual apology I have ever offered in my life. To my unimportant, unrefined, banal classmates and my ludicrous, ignorant teachers I can easily say 'Of course Sir, I am so sorry Sir!', but this is only because I am using these words a web, without giving them meaning, a web in which these weak people are caught and forced to like me. To Potter I cannot offer an empty, calculated, hypocritical apology of this sort unfortunately, for I fear it would only offend him even more, so I give him the best I can possibly do to sooth his dangerous anger.

He seems mildly pacified, and he physically retreats, probably happy to have intimidated me, this horrible, aggravating wizard.

In the back of mind, a small, traitorous voice observes that in spite of how vexing most of my encounters with him are, they **are** the moment of the day when I truly come to life. And of course, as usual, I hate him for that.

* * *

Potter's PoV

"Can you cast a fully corporeal, matter-dense Patronus yet, Riddle?" I then ask, in a light, neutral manner. I even smile at him, in a lets-just-ignore-the-animosity way, and he seems to get it. So he simply answers, like any old student would.

"Not exactly. My silver cloud has been taking the form of a snake, but the outline is still considerably blurred and the body of the Patronus spell is not nearly as dense as it should be," the boy replies, and his features clearly convey his irritation, for academically he is a really compulsive perfectionist. I can tell he clearly does not enjoy having to admit an incomplete success, and I am pleasantly surprised he does anyway.

"I'll show you my own Patronus. It will probably help you visualise your goal," I tell him. I have always liked showing my Patronus around, and it is not only because it is magically excellent and I always got complimented on it, but also because my stag simply makes me feel good. So I let my mind dig up cherished memories of a laughing Ron, of flying on a broom, and Remus ruffling my hair, and I lovingly whisper the incantation.

Between me and Tom Riddle appears a very large, solid stag, slender and majestic, shining in all his silver glory, with a magnificent pair of glistering antlers. Riddle face looks mildly impressed, and I can therefore infer that he is extremely impressed. He extends his hand, his movement slow and mesmerized, and he gently scratches the Patronus' neck. _Thank you Prongs, I will be seeing you around_, I think and dismiss the Patronus, causing Riddle to look a little bit disappointed.

I suddenly feel the urge to tell him that what he just saw was my father, this proud, regal being, the father that he robbed me of, with his sick obsessions and twisted ambitions, but I hold myself back, for more accusations serve no purpose.

"How can you actually achieve such a... splendid Patronus? It doesn't seem to me that you have too big a stock of blissful memories, either," Riddle asks quietly, his eyes still looking a little bit fascinated, and I am astonsihed by the word "splendid" coming out of young Voldemort's mouth. This apathetic, cocky boy, he scarcely ever attributes positive characteristics to anything, so this word is received by me as a very unexpected compliment. Skillful magic, I gather, is a kind of beauty even he can appreciate. I also notice that the soft blue hue colouring his irises right now gives them an appearance of innocence as opposed to coldness, and I unwillingly note to myself that he'd be loved by Renaissance painters.

"It is not about how many good memories one has. It's about whether he treasures them as fondly as they deserve to be treasured. How did you feel when you first laid your eyes upon Hogwarts?" I ask him, remembering full well my own initial astonishment and endless joy. Having come from the grey, hostile world of muggles, like I did, he must have felt some measure of excitement at the sight of the famed castle, I reckon.

"I was... somewhat impressed," he replies dispassionately, arching one of his eyebrows elegantly. I can translate that into "a_ctually, I am really disappointed with Hogwarts. I have nothing more to gain here_".

"I can see that you have demystified Hogwarts in your mind, since it can no longer catch your interest like it once did. But I need you to try and remember how you really felt when, as age eleven, you first lifted your eyes towards this majestic, ancient castled, bathed in moonlight and magic," I stress, urging him to put some effort into it. He gives me a disinterested look.

"Alright. Lets do this together then," I say, and without warning I invade his mind with a silent _Legillimens_. I am careful not to examine any other memory but the one I am here to get, because I do not want to violate whatever trust there could be more than I did simply by casting this spell. I find the memory easily, for Riddle pushes it towards me, aware of what I am looking for, and I silently thank him for his cooperation. We dive into it together.

**_I am Tom Riddle, eleven years old, and I try to be a somewhat introverted but infinitely polite little orphan, so as to make everyone like me. I am sitting in a boat, proud of how everyone already seems so taken with me, looking up to the night sky. The stars seem unusually bright, and although I always knew I was different from the stupid, disgusting people surrounding me, I can still hardly withold my excitement. I squint in order to be able to discern the shape of a castle appearing from within the darkness, my heart beating faster than it should._**

**_ Soon the castle is in front of me, and all these kids around me are gaping like silly fish, which I try not to, although the sight is absolutely amazing. I can barely believe my luck, because this magical place will now be my home, and I will no longer have to put up with the oily man and his kind all year, and perhaps I will one day be able to make them into toads. Instead I will be here, in this magestic, ancient monument, learning how to be a strong wizard, how to transform things and fly on a broom. My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake._** I grab this last thought, and plunge into it again.

**_My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake. _**

**_My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake. _**

**_My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake._**

* * *

I very abruptly pull out, and before I can even adjust to the material world, I urge Riddle to cast a Patronus. His slightly dazed eyes meet mine, and I can tell he wants to tell me something about having entered his mind without warning, but I urge him again, now that the emotion is fresh, and he complies.

"_Expecto Patronum_" he casts in a somewhat breatheless voice, and a blast of silver comes out of his wand, twisting swiftly into the form of a large and elegant snake, a reptile as majestic and sublime as a Basilisk. Soon enough the silver clouds of light around it are absorbed into the body of the spell, and the form becomes clear, the contour solid. The bright snake hisses gleefully, and slowly climbs around Riddle's body.

I can tell it is a very potent Patronus, dense and radiant, and I cannot help but admire its imposing form. The young boy seems to be glowing in delight, staring at the beautiful reptile with uncovered fascination, perhaps even affection. He places one of his hands on the snake's graceful head, and the silvery animal rubs itself on it with great pleasure. Riddle, caressing his regal companion, seems to be very proud of himself, and then he turns around and beams at me, the first genuine smile I have ever seen from him.

With his features lit by the pure glow of the Patronus, and a smile on his face, I am astonished by how angelic he looks. I can barely believe how much darkness and violence is still hidden behind this deceitful appearance, but I can at least unerstand why none of his other teachers would have noticed his twisted personality. If he were a hideous creature, deformed and repugnant like his future self, ugly enough to be in harmony with his equally ugly inner world, he would at least be a creature of balance.

And in this sense, Voldemort, the future Voldemort, is exatly what he looks like, predictable and plain. Tom Riddle is different, for his face is lying to you by its shape alone.

And it is this very contrast between his beauty and the heinous soul he carries that makes him, to my eyes, the most frightening, absurd monster there is.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: The only Harry Potter books I could possibly own are the ones I went over and physically bought from the book store a few years back. Except from the sixth book, that is, which I have borrowed from my cousin.

A/N: This chapter is, in a way, the second part of the previous chapter.

To BBW: Well, it's not as if Tom Riddle has stopped being a twisted sociopath just because the root of his trauma as revealed. It will take a lot of work from both men to restore Riddle's humanity. Yet, I agree with you. He probably has his if not good then at least half-decent moments too.

A small note concerning Nagini: In Rowling's canon, according to Dumbledore, Voldemort has feelings for Nagini that he has not for anyone else; she is the one thing he (arguably) cares about. Go read the books if you don't believe me. I also personally assume this to be true, seeing as Albus' hunches on Voldemort are usually spot on, and thus my Potter accepts that to be a fact as well. I would also like to mention that one of my three dogs is named Nagini. Consider this a random-fact-of-the-day sort of thing.

* * *

Chapter 13

The Patronus is overwhelmingly gorgeous, with radiant, smooth scales and glistering eyes, and as it climbs around my body, I feel amazed and accomplished to have been its creator. As it rubs its majestic, pulchritudinous head against my own pallid fingers, I am inspired with great awe, unable to truly believe that my minute, petty moments of joy, my worthless memories of childish excitement, could ever produce such a graceful, statuesque, aristocratic form.

There are still things for me to learn from the green man, I decide to myself as neutrally as possible, supressing the gratitude I am currently experiencing towards his person.

Nonetheless, unable to fully contain my fascination and jubilance, I turn around and smile at him triumphantly, and it is probably the closest I can do to expressing my appreciation. It is then that I notice his expression, pensive and bittersweet, a small, hardened smile on his face that does not feel quite right, and I ponder upon the nature of his thoughts. It is perhaps my general fondness of reptiles that reminds him just how much of a Slytherin I am, but I do not think this is it, for his expression does not seem concerned; it seems almost nostalgic. I find myself unable to comprehend this man far more often than I would have liked to, it occurs to me.

"A splendid Patronus. Congratulations," he finally says, the crisp little smile decorating his visage broadening, and somehow that makes me feel better myself, for I have met the expecations of a powerful, demanding wizard, which is a great accomplishment.

I _Finite incantem _my charm and the glittery silver dust slowly dissipates inside the empty classroom, its disappearance almost making me sad, as I look up to Potter expectantly. He chooses to remain silent for a few seconds, looking very thoughtful, his hand placed on his lower jaw and his steady, bright eyes unfocused. The faint remains of the Patronus dust is floating between our forms, and I am almost mystified by the lingering magic surrounding us.

"I think we should go to Knockturn Alley. Let's go ask Headmaster Dippet for a permission, shan't we?" he ultimately suggests, a complete non-sequitur, so I raise an eyebrow questioningly, as his suggestion makes no sense to me whatsoever, and because the word "we" leaves a strange taste in my mind's mouth as I inwardly repeat it.

Nonetheless, I nod in confused agreement, for I cannot bother questioning him on the purpose of going to the infamous Alley, certain that he knows exactly what he's doing, whether that is a good thing or not. And altough I generally despise other people making decisions for me, leave me to assume a passive role, I do not desire to go against the green man's plans currently, for he does seem to make my life quite a bit more interesting.

* * *

We walk to the Headmaster's office, and Dippet seems delighted to receive us, which dosn't mean much really, because that ignorant, weak-willed fool seems permanantly delighted to see people anyway, a behaviour which I find appaling. Harry Potter asks for a permission to travel with me to Diagon Alley (of course he wouldn't have mentioned Knockturn, cunning wizard), his clever excuse being that we need to purchase a few simple magical items so I can move from the chapter of non-magical item Transfiguration to magical Transfiguration.

Headmaster Dippet, in spite of his boundless stupidity and infinite inability to achieve producing a decent thought process, knows just how challenging magical item Transfigurations are, seeing as they are in the NEWT curriculum, and grants me a look of appreciation and pride, mumbling something about my being a real genius, a model student. I give him a shy, grateful and humble smile, and force my cheeks to redden, knowing that I can at will look like an endearing, studious, talented orphan, and let him know that I would love to be able to move onto advanced Transfigurations, and also that I will behave and cause Mr Potter no trouble whatsoever. Permission is easily granted.

As we walk out of the office, Potter turns around at me, and I notice a little smirk twitching on his lips, and a strange spark playing in his eyes, which makes him look just like a disobedient teenanger. I can not bring myself to believe that this individual belongs to the house of Gryffindor, as he told me a while ago. Furthermore, he looks nothing like the evidently wise, skeptical, serious wizard he was a few moments ago, and secretely I wonder whether he is suffering from a multiple personality disorder, or is simply trying to mindfuck me.

"A most excellent piece of acting, young man," he whispers conspirationally, and my lips part in mild shock, because I really did not expect him to compliment me on a blatant display of immorality, since he has an evident hero complex. He looks around us carefully, cautiously, ensuring that no one is watching, and then he offers me a second impish grin, and I once again wonder if this is the same wizard that a mere hour ago was threatening and intimidating me. Perhaps he really is a Gryffindor; they have fun at the most inappropiate moments.

"Give me your hand," he consequently adds, and extends his own lined arm towards me, looking around to ensure we are alone once more. I glare at him incredulously, and then stare at his extended arm as if it where something the cat brought in, unsure of what he is trying to achieve. I must admit that if this irritating wizard's masterplan is to confuse me to death, his proximity to his ultimate goal is impressive, so I turn around and give an unconvinced look, waiting for an explanation.

He says nothing much in response, which is frustrating, but his expression is urging me to cooperate, and his arm is still hanging in the air, ridiculously, so I release an exasperated sigh, and slowly place the tips of my long fingers on his large, callused palm. I am half-expecting something grandiose to happen, or something extremely painful perhaps, and although what actually happens is neither, it is certainly exceedingly impressive.

We apparate.

Out of Hogwarts.

_You can't do that. That's just... No one can do that!_

A split second later I am Knockturn Alley, and next to me is standing a smug-looking Potter, whose shiny eyes hold an immature _did-I-impress-you-yet?_ shade all over them. I retrieve my fingers and stare at him admittedly astonished, because I have studied Hogwarts' magical wards and enchantments long and hard, and I can think of no possible way anyone could apparate in or out of the castle, even if his magic was as tangibly powerful as his is.

"**How** did you do that?" I carefully ask, trying to keep my voice very collected, but I cannot help but sound equally surprised and suspicious.

"I'll teach you when I can truly trust you. If the Voldemort of my future knew of this trick, I doubt I would be alive to tell the tale," he tells me, and suddenly his voice is cold and serious, the previous playfulness completely absent from his eyes, and I recall him saying that in me he sees the murderer of his family and loved ones, so I fully understand his unwillingness to share that kind of secret.

Nonetheless, I calculatingly note on the to-do list of my mind to try and extract this information from him as soon as his defences are low enough, which will hopefully eventually occur. Distracted by my thoughts, I barely notice that the green man is waking towards a run-down shop, so I take a few hasty and awkward steps to join him towards "Treetail's Dangerous Familiars". And although the fact we would be going there makes no acceptable amount of sense, I happilly follow, sure at least that this day will not be as excrutiangly dull as many others are.

* * *

Harry PoV

I make my way to the shop, and Riddle reluctantly follows. Inwardly, I congratulate myself for my brilliant idea, and walk into Treetail's lair.

Leaving a perplexed Riddle staring cautiously at the bizzare beasts surrounding him, I go straight for the shop-owner. He is a man in his wizarding 80s, with a somewhat creepy monocle and more than a few bite scars decorating his skin. He gives me a broad welcoming smile, which I do not find entirely pleasant. He then begins to ramble about some amazing young Thestral he brought in the other day, and about a bunch of fresh Sapphire Spider eggs, winking at me eerily. I assure him that I know exactly what I am here for, and he assumes a more serious stance.

"I am looking for a magical Green Viper, preferably a young one." I state, and I put all my confidence and demandingness into my voice. With the corner of my eye, I see Riddle, who is examing some three-headed bird somewhere behind me, looking very intruiged.

"I do happen to have three young snakelings of the kind you are asking for. But they are very expensive, I must tell you. A rare, powerful breed," the shopkeeper tells me, and he casts a levitation charm, bringing a large glass box from the back of his shop onto the counter. Three beautiful young reptiles slither and mingle inside it.

"I, beyond the shadow of a doubt, want a female," I say plainly, and the shopkeeper looks a little surprised at my unshaken certainty.

"Females tend to be more expensive than males. Two of these three are females," he replies, adjesting his monocle. He signals for me to apprach the glass box, and points at the two females for me, explaining how the one with the bright black markings is the male. Tom Riddle is still behind me, and he looks uncertain about what my motives could be, but fascinated by the snakelings.

"So, which of the two young females to you like better Tom Riddle?" I ask him casually, and he raises an eyebrow at my question, probably unsure of how this concerns him. He does take a closer look at them though, his intense blue eyes following the slithery movements. He looks a little taken by their elegance and bright green colours, almost like a elementary school student with a crush. What I know that the shopkeeper doesn't, is that Riddle is probably also listening in at the snakes' conversation. He remains unmoving in front of the glass container for what I caclulate to be at least ten minutes, staring at the fledgelings like a scientist.

"This one appears to possess extraordinairy intellect," he decides in the end, and he looks up at me, pointing at the little creature on the left.

"We'll take the one the boy says," I tell the monocled man, and he grins greedily and levitates a much smaller glass box.

"We won't need a box," I add, knowing full well that with both of us being Parselmouths, controlling this little lady will be no problem. The man behind the counter looks completely confused, but he does open the box, retrieving the little snake in question and handing it over at me, watning me that they are very deadly, especially once their poison gains potence, as they mature. I look unfazed.

"Give it to the boy, rather than me. It is him I am purchasing it for," I tell the man, and once again he eyes me with suspicion, but hands the snake at Tom Riddle anyway, who, at my words, drops his jaw a little, in absolute amazement. Like a little kid being offered an amizing candy bar, he takes the cherished little reptile into his hands, eyes glowing in unrestrained excitement.

The young Slytherin hisses more than a few compliments at the beautiful young snake, and then advises it to stay on his shoulder and be a good girl, a blissful look lighting up his face. At the sound of Parseltongue, the man's monocle drops, but he quickly picks it up, and tries to hide his evident discomfort.

"How much will that be?" I ask him in a friendly and gentle voice, because I do feel a little guilty for having let Riddle terrify him so.

"Around 800 galleons..." he mutters, and he looks somewhat fearful, as if I would cast an Unforgivable at him at the sound of the rather stingy price. Of course, I have no such money on me, or anywhere around me for that matter, so I simply put my hand into the collar of my robes and lift a pendant out. I hand it over to the man, who, examining the pendant in question, exclaims something about Merlin's tecticles and has his eyes widen comically.

"These are Basilisk fangs! They are worth a fortune, for Salazar's sake, a real fortune!" he mutters greedily, and swiftly accepts the deal. I of course know that the fangs are worth a lot more than 800 galleons, but I say nothing, because money is the least of my concerns. Riddle is watching over the scene, meticulously observing the interaction with evident interest. He does not look too surprised at my owning Basilisk fangs, but I guess he wouldn't, since the Chamber's Basilisk did mention that I have slain it the future.

* * *

As soon as we leave the shop, Riddle turns his head at glares at me, and in spite of looking absolutely elated with his new familiar, his eyes also betray disbelief. Before he can say anything, I happily state that he should name her Nagini.

"That was actually the name I had in mind for..." he begins to reply in a slightly surprised tone, but his sentence is left unfinished, as he suddenly squints his eyes at me suspiciously.

"In the future, I have a snake called Nagini then, do I not? A female Viper, I'd even dare to guess. This is why you knew exactly what to ask for. What I fail to understand is, why would you have me repeat something that Voldemort did, such as acquiring a dark and venomous familiar, even pay for it in fact, if your intention is to prevent me from becoming him?" he asks coldly, and I am once again surprised by just how perceptive and intelligent the young student is.

"Because perhaps the one, minute redeeming quality of this heinous creature that Voldemort became, was his love for his familiar. And I'd rather you feel something for a freaking Dementor if you are so inclined, than be this blood-chilling hollow shell that you usually are," I reply simply and bluntly, and I can tell that Riddle now fully understands the reasoning behind Nagini's purchase, for, after all, he is a prodigy. Although of course, he does seem more than a little taken aback by my brutal honesty.

He looks at the young little reptile resting on his shoulder, and hisses something affectionate, also letting her know of her new name. He then caresses her gently, trailing one of his long, elegant fingers down the snake's back, and for the second time today, he offers me something akin to a smile. Meanwhile, I try to push images of Tom Riddle whispering affectionate words to a Dementor out of my troubled mind.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Only the following things worth mentioning are mine: an awesome military jacket, three dogs, a piano, hunderds of books. Notice how I am not including Rowling's characters? And it's not because they're not worth mentioning.

A/N: Dear RRW wonders if Nagini can protect Tom Riddle from his foster father. Here I simply must clarify a few things. Riddle's foster father is not actually abusive. You might have read the description of their relationship through Tom's twisted mind, that perceives things differently than ours, but you must have noticed that never has any sexual abuse occured, and there has only been one truly violent incident in seven years. Tom Riddle might be unable to understand, having grown up in a screwed up environment, why a man would want to hug and kiss him and ruffle his hair, and thus perceives it as some kind of abuse. But believe me, if you also adopted a silent little kid from an orphanage with an evident attachment disorder, you'd probably hug them and kiss them too, and dress them up and tell them bedtime stories. It's a completely natural behaviour.

Also, Riddle disgustedly mentions how the man "wakes him up", "caresses his cheek" and asks to be "called father". How are any of these abusive? He is expressing affection for his adopted son, so what? He is trying to get a kid that has been with him for seven years to call him father, so? My dad used to wake me up with hugs until I was, like, 16. Tom Riddle's foster father is simply an affectionate human being, albeit a uncultivated and simple man of no particular grace, and he is trying to create a bond between himself and the kid he is trying to raise. Tom complains about being "stalked". He is a goddamn preteen, is he expecting to roam free without his guardian's supervision? If you check out the domestic abuse statistics in the UK, Riddle's foster father is actually a very good case. With a difficult, insulting, cynical and violent kid like Tom, other parents would have either resulted to kicking him out, or beating him up regularly. Especially if it wasn't their biological kid.

Sorry for that ramble. I just don't want to make out of that poor, sad guy a villain that he isn't. **Tom's perception of things is not the objective truth.**

Also, Barranca, I do want the link to that smut story involving Darth Vader, Ringwraiths and Snape at some point.

* * *

Chapter 14

Riddle's PoV

I walk to the Slytherin common room, a gorgeous snakeling in the colours of emerald and jade curled up beside my neck, and it occurs to me that perhaps I should have thanked Potter for purchasing this impressive and rather expensive familiar for me, especially since he doesn't seem to have any money but his measly wage, which makes sense, since he is a time-traveller. I put that thought aside somewhere, but admit to myself that I will probably conveniently forget to express my gratitude during our next confrontation, since I am not extremely fond of such courtesy when I am not actually assuming the role of the endearing orphan prodigy.

As I enter the common room, a few pairs of idiotic eyes fall onto my tiny scaled companion in awe, and soon I am bombarded with irritating questions by impressed morons.

I simply state that I have purchased a familiar, shrug, and then I impassively add a few tasteful details about how brutally venomous and intelligent said familiar is, stroking the nasty little lady with my index hedonistically. Sliding between gaping mouhs and widened eyes and avoiding the random comments of appreciation thrown at me, ducking a few pathetic attempts of other students to reach my shoulder I find my way to my room, and, my eyes glistering with the pleasure of causing a tumult of gossip and excitement around my person, I bid everyone goodnight. I might be quite the solitary soul, but sometimes I simply love attention.

Behind closed doors, I bring my as of yet tiny companion in front of me, and mutter another few hissy compliments on its lovely colour and elegant contour, and then, taking into account a snake's impressively accurate perception of magic and emotion, I decide to ask Nagini a few casual questions.

_"Ssso, are happy to be my familiar, dearessst viper, or would you have rather preffered the green-eyed man to have kept you, mm_?" I inquire curiously, eyeing the little lady. I wonder if I sound envious of Potter's evident magical talents and outrageous confidence, but don't actually care whether I do or not, for Nagini will have all the time in world to form an accurate opinon of me.

"_I find you to be a mosst sssuitable companion, even more ssso as we are both of a very sssimilar age. In sssnake years of course, you humanss tend to mature fasster than us Green Vipersss. But your friend wasss rather appealing too,_" she gently hisses at me, her bright yellow eyes shaped into sharp slits, staring right into mine, and I find her most seductive, in spite of her youth.

"_Wasss he? I hear that your kind isss actually very ssenssitive to magical signaturesss, would you mind giving me your impresssion of my magicksss, and of hisss_?" I add in a casual tone, hoping to extract a little more information about the green man, information that humans are unfortunately most unable to acquire through their senses.

"_You assk a lot of questionsss, but I like that and I will anssswer the besst I can. Your magickss are not very well tamed. They ssseemed ssavage to me. But they are alssso very, very powerful, and perfectly homogeneousss, like a huge green wave. They are mossst impressive. That other man'sss magicksss... They are not much sstronger than yourss, actually. But they are cssertainly better controlled. The nature of its ssignature is mossst peculiar though. It iss very uneven, with a few patchesss of red, a large amount of green patchess, and even patchess of black. Ass if he hass incorporated within him the magical signatures of many wizardsss. His green magicksss... They are eerily sssimilar to yoursss, you know, like it would be between twinss_." the snake replies after a few seconds of deep thought, and I feel enthused by the maturity of my familiar's character and her most exquisite intelligence, for in spite of her years she provided a more interesting conversation than any of my classmates could.

Furthermore the information provided was absolutely fascinating, and brilliantly detailed, causing me to plunge into deep, concentrated syllogisms. This strange similarity between my magical signature and a part of Potter's own magic is certainly difficult for my brain to provide a rational explanation to, seeing as he is at least fifty years younger than me, if the time-travelling is taken into account, and thus I highly doubt we could be first degree blood relatives, unless he is my son, something which is not only disturbing as a concept, but also cannot possibly be the case, since he claims I have murdered his parents, and he certainly tends to be strangely honest.

Perhaps I should take advantage of his foolish sincerity and desire to be straightforward, and slyly leech the information I seek by simply using the cunning technique of asking face to face.

* * *

Nagini inquires whether I could provide a possible nest for her to rest in, so I transfigure one of my regular pillows into a fluffy, bloodcell shaped one and generously offer it to my newly acquired companion. Snakelings that are still in their most rapid phase of growth do require a lot of beauty sleep, so I leave my exquisite lady alone to regain her strenght and begin undressing myself languorously, equally worn out from today's excitiment. I try to avoid sensorily ackowledging the two oddly smooth stumps on my right foot, for I know they will only trigger unpleasant memories, or even agonising nightmares, and I also carefully avoid touching the hairless, creamy surface of my calves.

Only all this conscious effort to keep my thoughts away from the well only pushes my mind further towards the horrid, atrocious experience, and soon I find myself, in spite of my best effort, plagued with gruesome images of death and decay. I thus lie montionlessly in my hard, cold bed, my mind reeling around abominable pictures full of blood and mould, and wonder just how long it will take for me to once again achieve a fairly healthy sleeping pattern. Nonetheless, in this disgusting moment of weakness and need, Nagini's soft, barely audible snoring, which does sounds more like a gentle and even hissing sound really, offers some sort of quiet comfort.

Sleep brings no peace to me, for it only unbinds my delirious subconscience, unrestrains my phobias an unleashes them upon me in the form of dreams.

**_And therefore I am in a dark, humid well, hard walls of weathered stone closing in around me, and far above me, barely visible but undeniably present, is the green man, bathed in sunlight. "I am trying to help you" he shouts mockingly, and his face distorts into something monstrous, inhuman, and suddenly it is not him anymore, but a crazed, sadistic wizard, with red eyes full of mania, laughing self-appreciatively_**.

**_I believe it to be the twisted picture my mind has constructed out of Potter's fragmented information on my future self, but this rational explaination matters very little in a dream, for what really does matter is the fact this man in throwing corpses at me. Heavy, lifeless bodies begin to crash around me, their limbs breaking like petty twigs, blood gushing out of abhorrent wounds, and the stench of death fills my little prison and my struggling lungs. _**

**_"I am trying to help you" the man from above repeats, but his voice now is now insane, snake-like, low and uneven, betraying a personality with no restraints, no logic. Cadavers still fall like some kind of sickly rain, pieces of entrails splashing around me and causing me to experience an emetic fit, while I am increasingly immersed in organic matter in a state of necrosis. Soon enough I am practically buried alive in this mass of rotting flesh, and I am terrified and nauseated, about to lose my senses and perhaps even my life. _**

**_I try to scream, but my open mouth emits no sound whatsoever, just like back then in the well, after my vocal cords has been so brutally damaged, and my eyes widen in increasing panic._**

**_Yet, this repulsive rain comes to an abrupt end, and as I raise my eyes towards the mouth of the well, instead of a destroyed, deranged version of myself, I see Potter once more, glaring down at me cooly and with a slightly apologetic expression, which I am unsure of how I manage to discern, since he is so far from, so terribly far. "I can do nothing for you," he finally says, and walks away impassively, leaving me alone, hopeless in the midst of death and ruin, decomposition, blood and fear, screaming for end to my torment, my voice forever unheard. _**

When I wake up, my mouth is open wide but soundless, and my jaw is so tighly clenched that my lower facial muscles ache badly, while my body is gleaming with fresh sweat. I evidently decide against a further attempt at resting, so I simply try to let my body relax while my tortured brain is clouded and restles, bather in mental agony. I think about waking my precious little familiar up, for perhaps in her endless reptilian wisdom she could offer me some advince on this case of recurring nighmares, but I find myself deeply ashamed to ask for anything at all.

The traitorous, pahetic voice in my head suggests that it would be most pleasant if the green man was in proximity, for he does often provide without forcing me to degrade myself by revealing my own needs. I sharply silence it, and glue my eyes to the ceiling, emotionlessly, as hours pass and pass, till sunrise.

* * *

Albus' PoV

I bask in the pleasant beehive feeling produced during Tuesday mornings in the Great Hall, before I actually notice that today's upheaval seems unusually wide-spread. It also occurs to me that most of the people whispering or shouting are holding a Daily Prophet, so I infer that either someone has cursed today's paper with a Confudus charm, or something important is written there. My first theory sounds far more credible, but since I am a very open-minded man, I do find myself a Prophet to take a look at. Surprisingly, something fairly interesting is indeed sprawled all over the front page. It actually reads:

**_Grindelwald's army collapses under internal conflicts._** _The Dark Wizard rumored to have killed a vast number of his own followers for unknown reasons, more on page 4._

Well, not unknown to me, I think, and sip my tea cheerily. Harry Potter, that sweet endearing boy, is seated a few seats away from me, looking at me with an impish grin extending from one of his ears, the left one I believe, right to the other. I obviously pretend to be utterly shocked by his silent suggestion that I, of all people, could have anything to do with such dreadful happenings, killings and all, but still do choke on my tea laughing.

I pleasantly observe him mirroring my wise action by choking on his own coffee, and note to myself that this young man has great potential for learning through imitation. My eyes then turn to the Slytherin table, where reactions seem to be less joyful and a little more disbelieving. Tom Riddle in particular looks quite striken but also very incredulous, his right eyebrow raised to amazing heights and his eyes squinting a fair bit as the animated newspaper.

If I did not know better, I would even say he seems to be mildly disappointed, if not crestfallen, but that would be a very rude thing to assume. He eats nothing, which is not actually even remotely unusual, and glides away from the Great Hall a little irritated, mumbling something that I do not quite catch. My state of mind does turn serious though, surprisingly it can, as I notice a few layers of glamour placed not only on his body, where I have been told by Harry that there might be a few nasty reminders he wishes to dispose of, but also on his face, and particularly under his eyes.

On a second thought, he does look paler than usual as well, and rather emaciated.

I turn around to my lovely teaching assistant, and find his bright green eyes following Riddle's form with evident concern, which makes me feel great relief. At least he seems to be fully capable of taking care of and noticing the occasional swings in Tom Riddle's fragile inner balance all by himself. I would have hated to have to interfere in any way in their budding relationship, even if to point Harry to the right direction, but evidently the powerful young wizard knows what he is doing, and perhaps I need his help more than he needs mine.

And anyway, I would not really know myself how to deal with Tom Riddle's frail mental stability, or lack thereoff, in spite of my admittedly vast knowledge and great magical achievements. I guess that these two wizards were destined to play a central role in each other's lives, whatever timeline they happened to interact in, and whatever the nature of the interaction might be; and I am not ashamed to say that in fact of being a grown man of a certain academic fame, I fully believe in fate. It is fate that brought Gellert to me and bound us in a profound, invincible way that neither war not death could, in the end, fully break.

So I guess it must be fate that brought Potter here, right by the side of his nemesis, ready to once again build most of his life around a man named Tom Marvolo Riddle. Just like he did before.

* * *

Potter's PoV

During my morning Transfigurations' classes with the second years, although I try my best to be an apt and entertaining educator, I find myself unable to properly concentrate. I am thinking of Riddle, that damned boy. What troubles me in not his reaction of irritation at the news of internal conflict within Grindelwald's side.

This was a very predictable one actually, since I know he greatly admires the man, a feeling that hardly ever occurs within Riddle otherwise. What did cause me to worry was his pasty complexion, the lack of energy in his movements and his evident and strangely weak face glamours, under which I could clearly see the signs of insomnia. I was hoping that even in an indirect manner, Nagini would help him break out of his spiral of horror and despair, but I guess that it will not be that easy. Perhaps I need to interfere more actively, even though I might risk an angry rejection once again. What I certainly cannot do is stand aside as he suffers, for it is suffering that will lead him to darkness and insanity.

These and more thoughts are passing through my busy mind as I impatiently wait for my class with the third years, where I''ll be able to take a closer look at Riddle.

But right now, Minnie McGonagall is asking me some unnecessarily complicated question on the transfiguration of pin cushions, so I do need to bring my mind back to the present moment and come up with a passable reply. She reminds me so much of a younger Hermione, that I actually have to bite my tongue a few times in order to not get the names confused, but what surprises me the most is that I feel no painful nostalgia for these people, such as 'Mione, that I so dearly loved and which I will probably never see again.

There is no place in my heart right now for anything but the raging war for Riddle's soul.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald all belong to Rowling, but she unfortunately doesn't slash them enough, so here I am.

A/N: At last we will start experiencing some serious plot. It took me quite a while to sort the plotline in my head, and now, although it's still not as sorted out as it should be, I am ready to get on with it.

To Endlessvamp: Your wish is my command. I will indeed try to make a paragraphs a little shorter, because my father is aso complaining about that, although I am really not the type to space every two lines. Perhaps I'll try to space every maximum four lines or somethin. How's that for an idea?

To Pouf: I personally really like Albus' cheery and silly wisdom, and I do feel like patting his head myself, even in canon. I am glad I could convey that. As far at the magical signatures go, hold your breath, it's part of the plot!

* * *

Chapter 15

Potter's PoV

I am already inside the empty classroom next to Albus' Transfiguration class, waiting for the sugar-addicted professor to send Riddle my way. Sure enough, I barely have to wait for a minute before the boy walks in, quietly. He looks elegant, and beautiful and confident, as usual, but my keen eye can see behind his amazing mental armour and complex, interwoven glamours right into his exhaustion and pain. I needn't say anything for him to sit somewhere in front of the desk I am resting on, and he then looks at me with these haunting blue orbs of his, waiting.

"You look fairly tired. In fact, you look completely worn out, mister Riddle. Are you not sleeping well?" I casually ask, not willing to pretend I am not noticing these glamours underneath his eyes. I attempt pronouncing "mister" in the same disctreetly intimidating way that Snape used to, but as expected I fail quite badly. I do like how my sentence comes out to sound though. With a young man so used to plots, implications and whispered secrets, it seems that straightforward questions still produce an element of surprise that usually works to my benefit. Indeed, he does not seem to be expecting such a blunt inquiry right away, and his lips twitch a bit in irritation. He is probably the most proud person I have ever met, and he does not take well to other people being concerning about his well-being.

"I don't see how this is relevent to the matter," he mutters lowly, his voice less biting than it is defensive. From the fact he doesn't have the energy lash out about needing no one and being fine, I can deduce he is in a fairly bad shape. I feel a little worried for him, oddly enough, in a way not directly related to my actual mission.

"The matter here is you, Riddle. And your insomnia is, I dare suggest, rather relevent to that," I reply softly, trying to avoid annoying him even more. I fail, for I notice his jaw clench a bit, and his fists tightening, which are never good signs. He stares at me intensely, these fathomless, icy blue eyes burning into mine. He looks like he wants to curse me, but fortunately he doesn't.

"It is not a case of insomnia, Sir. I can sleep any time I wish to. I simply do not have such a wish," he replies, and the way he utters "Sir" is laced with poison and sarcasm. Nonetheless, he is cooperating, and I don't think he does so accidently. He is telling me that he not actually unable to sleep; the reason he doesn't is because doing so would have very unpleasant results. Perhaps it is his own, very twisted way of letting me know he could use some help.

"I have had terrible nightmares for the last twenty years of my life. Including the repeated memory of my mother begging to be killed in my stead, and then her corpse being kicked aside as a horrible, beastly man appraoched me in my cradle. I can even clearly remember the green light of an_ Avada Kedavra_ being thrown at me, and a chilling, maniacal laughter. Nightmares can be conquered, especially by someone as self-disciplined as you," he tell him, having noticed that my personal confessions do make him feel better at ease with his own traumatic experiences. He is looking at me now with an expression I can't identify.

"So you do not have them anymore?" he inquires, and his the tone of his voice is as impassive as possible. I will not lie to him, so I sigh and offer him a bittersweet smile.

"I never said that. I still have them, the one I mentioned and other, worse ones as well. It is just that I have places sturdy walls between me and them, and I no longer allow them to inflict any harm on me," I explain to the boy, who is listening in a seeminly disinterested manner, his face blank. His eyes, though, are burning with the thirst to know more about me, and the similarities between us. "Let me show you a nightmare I recently had. You may dive." I add, lowering my Occlumentic defenses. He does so without a moment's hesitation.

* * *

**_I__ am in an endless battlefield, and the sky is polluted, dark, heavy with the stench of death. It is twilight now, and a weak, reddish light can be seen, casting long, eerie shadows everywhere. I look down, and I see I am walking on the dead, hundreds of them, mingled and twisted in ways a human body shouldn't. A tree, leafless, looking black under the dwindling light, stands tall a dozen of feet away from me, and I feel the need to walk towards it. I try to take a step, but suddenly violent rotting limbs shoot out of the bloodied surface underneath me and grab my feet in desperation. I pull myself as hard as I can, and manage to take a couple of steps, ridding myself of the sickly, wounded arms that are attempting to bring me to themselves. _**

**_Glassy eyes look up at me from everywhere, blank but full of heavy, silent accusation. Breathless, scared, I run towards the tree, trying to keep my eyes off the sea of carcasses moving back and forth as if awakened._**

**_I reach the tree, and then scream. For it not an actual withered plant, but a heinous sculpture of human flesh, carved out in impossible, unnatural shapes. I can barely hold back from puking, but I do, for I have seen much horror in my life and my stomach has grown strong. The tree begins to move, mutilated hands creeping out of the bark, reaching out to me. On its surface I can discern the shredded face of Bill Weasley, the glassy eyes of Nymphadora Tonks, Fred's soundless scream. Bones purtrude out of their savaged bodies like branches, gleaming softly in the twilight, and I feel my lungs collapsing as strong arms attach me to the surface of the tree. My back against the fleshy bark, I try to free myself to no avail. Deformed, wounded limbs hold me a prisoner, rip my clothes apart, scratch me, hurt me, embrace me lustfully._**

**_And then a dark, familar figure approaches, with a tattered robe blown by the heavy, screeaching winds. The disfigured, snakelike visage of Voldemort, in all its terrible, hateful glory appears, red slits full of twisted pleasure. _**

**_He comes closer, too close for my taste, and pushes his body against me violently. The thin, lipless mouth comes down next to my ear, and his breath is colder than a Dementor's heart. "You will never be free of me. I have destroyed you forever. Stop running, Harry, my boy. You can never escape," he hisses in a manner as sadistic as it is pleased, and I lose consciousness. _**

Then Tom Riddle pulls out of me, white as a sheet and shaken.

* * *

Silence reigns in the empty classroom for a long, chilling moment, and we both try to regain our breaths. In the end Riddle, hesitantly, gets up from his seat and slowly walks up to me. He parts his lips a bit, as if to say something, but then purses them back, uncomfortably. Thousands of different things are flickering behind his eyes. Finally, he speaks, but his voice is trembling a little.

"That was me, wasn't it?" he questions, and he looks completely torn, a twisted, sick side of him awakened, pleased by the dark and violent vision while the rest of him looks horrified, lost, helpless. He exhales air heavily, and his eyes are still thick with conflicting emotions.

"Yes, that was you," I readily admit, keeping my voice factual, flat. The shadow stirring within the boy's soul is awakening a strange fear in me, but I can also see the rest of him fighting it, terrified of what he is capable of becoming. It is a relief to me.

"Your dreams are a lot like mine," he finally admits, and he lowers his head in a pensive, pained manner. I also take a step towards him, and we are very close to one another now. He looks consumed by his troubled thoughts, and I ponder shortly upon hugging him, but then decide against it, perhaps afraid of what his reaction might be. I try to think of something to say, and it takes a while, to be honest, so it is he who speaks again.

"How are we related, Potter? We must, in some way, be related. I know so. I can feel it," he whispers, and I think it's the first time he calls me that, the sound of my name in his lips alien and even a little wrong. A strange tension is formed between us, which forces me to take a step back, somehow.

"Our magical signatures are very much alike, I have been told. And you are also a Parselmouth. There must be a connection," he adds, more to himself than to me. Although it might take a while, I decide that it is perhaps the right time to make a few things known to him. I hope I will not regret it, because the risk I will be taking here is great. By even indirectly pointing to him where he failed and where he succeeded as a Dark Lord, there is the chance I am simply helping him become a more apt and wise Voldemort this time. Risks, though, exist to be taken.

"Do you know what a Horcrux is, Riddle?"

* * *

Riddle's PoV

I absorb the information like an eager, dry sponge, although it is at times disturbing, far-fetched, unbelievable and twisted, and I feel myself hanging from the green man's moving lips. So a piece of my soul resided in him, once, as I understand, after my failed attempt to murder him because of a prophecy involving him and my eventual downfall. He must have, in a sense, grown up as ninenty percent Harry Potter, and ten percent Tom Riddle then, I realise, which is a very rational explanation to why a portion of his magical signature is so incredibly similar to mine, for it is actually the magic that was formed according to the small fragment of me within him. He tells me of how this piece of me is now forever gone, but it has left much of my magic and abilities behind, shaping this man into someone forever similar to me.

He also tells me of our wands, that hold identical cores, and of how the physical resemblance between us used to terrify him as a younger man, for it could not even be explained by the Horcrux.

The concept of a Horcrux is completely new to me, and I feel it to be very fascinating, although Potter's description of how it makes the spirit grow thin and causes a quick degradation of one's mental state do appal me rather heavily. Learning more about both Voldemort and the green man himself, I feel drawn to the tale of their year-long conflict, their so very personal vednetta and their intimate mental connection, and now see Potter in a whole new light. He is not simply a very powerful warrior; he was or will be the poster boy of his entire generation, a true leader but also a man with a tormented soul, fighting not only against his own demons, but against a Dark wizard that was fated to be his opposite and his nemesis since he was a newborn babe.

It sounds exactly like my kind of fairy tale, and I feel my eyes unwillingly widen in mild wonder and anticipation as his story unfolds, gritty and epic.

"Why did Voldemort's _Avada Kedavra_ backfire?" I ask, refusing to say "my _Avada Kedavra_", because I am still trying to deny that this pathetic, insane monster that would do something as dishonourable as casting against a newborn child because of a bloody prophecy could be me. I am proud, I am rational, I am charismatic, and as much as immortality attracts me, I would not make myself into a abhorrent worm to achieve it. Thus I cannot be Voldemort, in spite of this strange darkness stirring somewhere in me, somewhere deep, somewhere hidden, like a lurking, dormant illness.

"It was assumed that my mother, who was a very powerful witch, and quite talented with charms, cast a protective shield using her own death as a human sacrifice, something which managed to halt part of the killing curse. Enough to keep me alive, but not enough to prevent me from becoming your soul's vessel. To be honest, I am not sure this is the case. I still think that something else must have happened, involving simply me and you, for I also do no believe all the similarities between us were simply by-products of this tiny, dormant fragment of your soul hibernating within me," he responds, and I am surprised by the amount of details he so generously offers me, in spite of the fact that they could so easily be used against him were I to follow the same path once again. He does seem to believe that I won't end up becoming a deranged, crude dictator this time, the fool, and although I would never utter it out loud, Morgaine curse me, I fervently hope he is right.

Furthermore, I do agree fully with his impressively clever evaluation; there must be something more to it, since a Horcrux, from what I have been informed of its nature, can't quite explain the fact our magic requested identical wand cores.

* * *

It is then that I realise there is some manner of a connection between me and the weathered warrior, the exquisitely powerful wizard standing in front of me, that no matter how strongly I might fight against, I can not negate, prevent, or erase. A thing of fate.

It no longer seems like such a negative fact, either, for he is perhaps the best person to teach me how to control my power, guard my sanity and grow stronger, and because having someone of my caliber around me does offer me an unexplainable pleasure. It can get a little lonely here at the top, and perhaps a man that can see through my ploys and personas, someone who can understand of my nightmares and inner violence, is less of a hindrance and more of a welcome relief, I muse to myself.

"I see what you mean. In spite of our abundant, obvious differences, starting with the fact that you are, most disappointingly, a Gryffindor, I can see exactly what you mean. But I am sure there must be a rational explanation for this in a yellowed book somewhere, and academic research has never thus far let me down. I'll let you know when I figure it out," I tell Potter a little arrogantly, and I unwillingly smile a bit, to my own horror, for a strange sense of companionship starts creeping into my mind. This tale I have just been told of, it has chased away the foul mood given to me by Potter's nightmare and his images of blood and death; somehow I feel excited to have acquired new pieces for the puzzle that is the young wizard before me.

He more than smiles back. He actually grins so widely that I fear his face might split in two, resulting in the upper part of his head falling off at some point. Perhaps he wouldn't make such a terribly bad guardian for me, I decide, for I do not only have much to gain from him as I see it, but I also find him a lot less disgusting than the rest of makind, for the time being. Thus, completely selfishly speaking of course, allowing him to create some sort of social bond between us would most probably be to my own benefit. Yes, that is a rational conclusion.

Later that night, as I lie in my bed, Potter's disturbing and profoundly violent nightmare creeps back into my unresting mind, and as I have witnessed it from his point of view, I can recall all its details as clearly as a crystal reflects the morning light. I shiver as the pictures of gruesome gore flash through my unwilling brain, and my right hand automatically falls onto my left one, as if to cover my glamoured scar and preventing it from reminding me of my own denied agony and horror. The human bodies, distorted and carved into gut-clenching shapes remind me eerily of my own sick dream; a putrid rain of corpses in my case, a terrifying landscape of them in Potter's.

One part of this dream is different from the rest though, and it comes back to me time and again, awakening a cruel beast within my heart and sending shivers down my spine; shivers of disgust, fear and excitement.

The moment that haunts me most is the moment this creature, that might or might not be me, Voldemort, pushes himself against a bloodied, shaking Potter, with his red eyes thick with the desire to inflict pain and to dominate, whispering hissed words of endless torment into the green man's ear. In equal parts terrified and fascinated at witnessing this violent chemistry between them, this intimate confrontation filled with hatred but also strange symmetry, I force myself to fall asleep in order to prevent myself from pondering upon this for any longer than I already have.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Unless I am actually a bored Rowling that decided to start writing a slashy horror/romance story in secret, while pretending to be a 20-year old student. Take your pick.

A/N: Someone asked me if my dad actually reads my fanfiction. Yes, he does. I have explained what slash is to him, where it comes from and how Harry Potter is not always a childish fandom. I even discuss my plots with my parents, at times. Why not?

To Pouf: Your reviews make my day. If my updates make yours, then consider it a debt repayed.

To Barranca: As I see it, even in canon Harry and Riddle/Voldemort share a very special mental bond, since they actually -share each other's emotions-. I am surprised that so few people realise how huge a connection this is. Also, their lives at some point revolve purely around one another, and they even seem to be drawn to each other, even if in a hostile way. Therefore it seems very natural to me that they would be, in my AU version of events, end up in their own little world, fairly detached from the rest of wizardkind. About Grindelwald making an appearance... Wait until the Christmas break. I have absolutely delicious stuff planned for that particular holiday.

Additionally, I need to add that I am delighted to have over 200 reviews, and underline how crucial reviews are for a fanfiction writer. Please, silent readers, do make your voices known.

* * *

Chapter 16

Potter's PoV

Promising to let me know of the conclusions he might draw after conducting some research, Riddle slowly walks towards the classroom's door, and I realise that he does have other lessons to attend except from mine. I nod at his somewhat sarcastic but not entirely ill-humoured remark, and wish him an interesting rest of the day. Minutes later, I am walking towards Albus' quarters, feeling the strange urge to have tea with my former mentor. I knock politely, and somehow he instantly knows it's me, for he invites me in by name. Dumbledore does more often than not know things that one shouldn't be able to know, I notice. I guess it's part of his charm. I will ask Grindelwald about it at some point.

I walk into the room and a Dumbledore greets me cheerily, and immediately inquires what sort of tea I'd rather have. I look a little lost at the question, so he starts explaining the benefits and drawbacks of various kinds and flavours of tea, in such detail that I soon become dizzy. I surrender by shouting for Forest Berry tea, a kind of tea I have actually never heard of, and he happily complies.

"So my boy, what brings you here apart from the desire to expand your horizons in matters of tea?" he asks as soon as we are both sitting down and sipping the warm liquid. I find myself amazed at just how delicious this pink-coloured tea really is, and beam at him. He beams back, cheerily, while Fawkes is singing some really strange tune. Consequently, I find myself equally amazed by how Albus' superficial silliness is actually an intelligent disguise for his wisdom, and how he actually manages to sooth my nerves and calm my stormy mind with his endearing eccentricities.

I resist the urge to hug him, and clear my throat.

"I told Riddle about the Horcruxes. His eyes glinted darkly at their mention. This might very possibly be a huge mistake," I tell him as the obsenely sweet, fruity taste lingers stragely on my mouth. My eyes don't actually meet his as I say this, because my mind it too lost in thought. When I finally do look up, he looks a lot more serious that before, his light blue eyes shining with gravity.

"Do you believe to have made a mistake? Or is it just your fear talking, Harry?" he questions me and his voice is now fairly intimidating and timelessly wise. In his features I no longer see the barmy, meddlesome coot I feel profound affection for, but the famed, powerful Light Lord I most deeply respect. It is extraordinairy how both can so peacefully coexist within Albus. I can certainly see why Gellert would be hopelessly in love with the odd redhead. But I have no time for such thoughts, and my mind dirfts back to the war going on behind Riddle's hollow eyes.

"I hope I have done the right thing, obviously. It is just that... it seems a part of Voldemort is already awake inside the child. It is not a matter of... prevention anymore. What I witnessed today... It was as if a civil war is occuring inside Tom Riddle's soul. I don't know what to do, really," I explain hurriedly, seeking words of encouragement, or perhaps advice from the older man. His eyes, permanently twinkling, are looking straight into mine. He then summons a bowl of Jelly babies, digs his fingers into it and pulls out a handfull of sweets, before offering me a reply.

"There is a chance that he will never fully change, and that there will always be a strong shadow lurking in him, Harry. What you have to do, is provide him with the right reasons to supress it and control it," he softly states, and swallows a dozen of somewhat disturbing infant-shaped candies. I repeat his words in my mind carefully, acknowledging the truth in them. I then wandlessly and silently attract a few Jelly babies towards my own mouth, and he looks at me in the same affectionate way that one would look at a child that just performed a cute and impressive little show.

"Perhaps Grindelwald could be of assistance to him," I very hesitantly add. It sounds more like a question than a suggestion.

"Indeed. I would advice both you and the boy to come to my cottage for Christmas. I am sure the four of us will have a wonderful time!" he exclaims so cheerfully that I nearly choke on my tea. Yes, a Dark Lord, a Light Lord, a time-travelling hero and a twisted dark fledgeling, Merlin help us; it will surely not be dull. The break is in two weeks, I calculate. Perhaps staying over at Albus' wouldn't be such a horrid idea. I will eventually have to meet with Riddle's foster father and request his permission to keep the boy at Hogwarts for the winter holidays, it appears.

* * *

I eventually return to my own quarters, and picking an interesting book on "The instinct of motherhood in Dragons", I let myself sink comfortably into an armchair. The illustrations of various types of flying reptiles suddenly remind me of Charlie Weasley, which makes me smile fondly at the worn-out pages. I barely have the time to finish my first chapter, when a discreet but persistent knock on my door forces me to bring my relaxing reading time to a halt. Seeing as it is fairly late, I cannot imagine this being anyone else but Dumbledore, and thus worried about the possible reasons that could bring him here at midnight, I walk hastily towards the door and open it.

Only to find a strangely flushed Tom Riddle staring at me in barely restrained excitement.

"The relation between our magical signatures, and wand cores. I have a lead on it. Here, I brought these magnificent old books for you. I am sure you will find this most interesting," he rambles, his eyes shimmering brightly with anticipation. I have never seen anyone being quite so excited about academic research and books except from Hermione, and, perhaps, Minnie McGonagall. And yet, since it is so closely related to our situation, and since it is important enough to bring a panting Tom Riddle to my door at midnight, I find myself increasingly curious. Few things could ever bring this introverted, mistrustful creature here at such a late time, and bring a subtle flushing upon the usually marble-like face.

And yet, part of me is actually dreading what this boy might have discovered. I have always feared that some sort of bond beyond the Horcrux must exist between us, and that's a concept that I would rather not muse on.

"Come in, then," I casually invite the boy in, and he walks into the room, suddenly seeming a lot less excited, and perhaps a little embarassed at his initial childish behaviour. He must be regretting his impulsiveness, I realise, since he is looking a little uncomfortable by now. His composure is fully regained though, and he is, as usually smooth and cold.

"Here. _Structure of the magical Psyche_ by Edwin Perwall, 1775, And_ Relations of Magicks in the cases of twins_ by Amarella Underbeet, a very rare 1823 edition, with the author's notes. That here is _Rituals of Bonding in the Assyrian Civilisation_ by J. D. Conrad and Heleene Kyriaki, the unedited 1864 one," he starts explaining while handing over various dusty tomes at me, which I examine with great interest. Some of them I know to be very rare, and not even available in the Forbidden Section of the Hogwarts library. I do wonder how he managed to get his hands on them in only one day.

"The first one I recognise to be the Forbidden Section copy. However did you acquire these other writings though? Especially the 1823 edition of Underbeet's study... I wouldn't know where to find it myself," I mutter praisefully, and although I do this in part because I know that compliments do make a narcissist easier to approach, I am also genuinely impressed.

"Many of my classmates come from ancient pureblood lines. And they are very eager to be of service. Even willing to ...borrow a few things from their manors for me," he quickly replies, a mischievous little smirk floating on his handsome face. He should be grateful I am giving him the opportunity to gloat. I am pleasantly surprised by his honesty though, and interpret it as a sign that his faith in me is increasing. Additionally, I can tell he is impressed by my actual knowledge of the existence of these books, and I inwardly thank Hermione for having subjected to endless lectures on pretty much everything there is to know on witchcraft and wizardry. I wouldn't have wanted to disappoint the kid with my academic ignorance.

* * *

I place the leather-bound tomes onto my desk, and the smell of old parchment and fading ink fills the room. Riddle takes hold of Edwin Perwall's analysis, and skipping a few pages impatiently, he starts reading out a passage for me. There is the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice, and I am not sure why, but if it is because of the magnitude of his discovery, then I should be feeling very anxious.

**"The structure of the magical psyche is very closely related to an individual's choice of wand. Wands are as plentiful and unique as magical personalities, and thus for every potential wizard an acceptable wand can be easily found. With over a hundred and twenty materials to choose from, and even more possible wand cores, ranging from Thestral tail hair to shredded pixie wings, never are two wands the same. But even wands with the same sort of wand core can be very dissimilar depending on the provider of the core. For example, a kind-hearted Centaur's mane will produce an entirely different result than a violent one's.**

**Furthermore, the conditions under which a wand is created affects its character, for a wand made during a full moon will never behave in the same manner as a wand created during a waning moon. The only characteristic of a wand that plays little importance as far as magical structures go is actually the material of the wand itself, surprisingly, which is meant to mostly suit a wizard's physical needs. Other than that, even the location of the wand-maker's laboratory can severely affect the resulting wand. In this sense, wands have a very distinct personality, that structurally matches the magic of their owner. **

**Wand-makers very rarely construct two wands with identical wand cores during the same year, for it is exceedingly unlikely for them to both find owners, seeing as two magical folk with such intense similarities in the structure of their magical psyche rarely coincide within a lifetime. The only thoroughly studied cases have been monozygotic twins. Nonetheless much unproven theory has been produced concerning magical psyche similarities, and cases of non-relatives with such closely related magicks have been said to exist. Such cases are often rumoured to be caused by lingering effects of old rituals of bonding between wizarding families. Not much is known about such rituals, for the ones potent enough to be able to manipulate two individuals' magical psyches into resembling one another have fallen about of use ever since the fall of the Hittite empire," **he finally concludes, and his whole face is glowing with trepidation.

* * *

He immediately picks up the study on twins, and flicks through the yellowed pages. I take deep breaths, trying to understand where this is going.

"**In some rare cases, monozygotic twins have been found to possess extremely similar magical signatures, the common name given to the structure of an individual's magical psyche. In my study I have even discovered twins between which a part of that signature is absolutely identical, a rare and very interesting occurance. My theory is the reason that even such a partial coincidence between two magical signatures is such a monumental event, is because it allows the two wizards that share that coincidence to also share to some extent their magicks and emotions. Yet I cannot prove this, for in my studies I have never, even between monozygotic twins, encountered magical signatures with a degree of similarity great enough to produce such an amplification. **

**What must nevertheless be mentioned, is that according to ancient manuscripts from the middle East, such cases have been documented during the first eras of mankind. More surprisingly, these cases seem to involve individuals not directly related by blood. **

**It is in fact rumoured that what has come across to the non-magical folk as the legend of Gilgamesh, and his companion Enkidu, is such a case of signature coincidence, distorted by the passing of the centuries. It is characteristic that in the first Akkadian tablet of the Gilgamesh epic, the king is described to have experienced dreams involving the arrival of his companion, Enkidu, something which is of great magoarcheological interest.**

**Amongst those who study the magical history of the state-cities of Ur and Uruk, it is often believed that these proto-magical civilasitions had indeed found a way to morph the structure of two wizards' magical psyches in order to intentionally create the desired similarities between them. This would serve the purpose of an exceedingly powerful pair of warriors, able to dig into each other's magical reserves. There is even an old Assyrian legend in which two magical brothers-in-arms are so similar in their signatures that a wand mistakes their owner's companion for their actual owner.**

**According to Hemerick Ferikssen, who unfortunately died before he would publish his extraordinairy paper on magical signature similarities, the traditional method of pairing up soldiers in Ancient Greece is but a remainder of the ancient and forgotten habit of constructing couples of wizards that share similar magical psyches. It is to be remarked that this habit of warriors being arranged into pairs was more pronounced in southern Greece, for example Sparta, than northern Greece. Presumably this is because southern Greece was closely related to the Middle East through trade, and thus this lingering habit, that was no longer connected to its intial source, was passed on,"** he finishes nearly breathlessly, and without wasting a single momemnt, he grabs the last books and skims through it to find the relevant passage.

* * *

His discovery slowly dawning on me, I find my mind reeling and overheating with the possible implications. No wonder he appears to be so excited, I understand. He must view this as an opportunity to amplify his already impressive magical potential. This is all very unexpected.

Having found the desired passage in the study of Assyrian rituals, he reads on.

"**A very obscure magical ritual rumoured to have been used at times of war in Mesopotamia is the ritual of signature-blending, an incredibly complex process leading in the creation of striking similarities between two magical psyches. There are even archeological clues that in its most potent forms, it could lead to two wizards sharing nearly five percent of their magical signature, which an amazingly large amount. It is presumed to have served the purpose of said wizards, in most cases two male warriors, being able to amplify each other's magic, and also being unable to betray their brother-in-arms by penance of death. **

**It is speculated by the Egyptian School of Magical Thought that the results of this bonding ritual also included the subtle conveying of emotions between the two wizards, to render them able to warn one another in case of distress, but none of this is any more that simple speculation.**

**The details of such a ritual are largely unknown nowadays, the practice having long fallen out of use due to unknown factors; perhaps unpleasant side-effects about which no information has survived the passage of time. It is very interesting to add though, that in many mythologies traces of this ancient ritual can be discovered. In the case of Gilgamesh and Enkidu it is even sometimes believed that the legend describes an actual pair of ritually blended wizards having historically existed. Another notable case is the bond between the twins Castor and Pollux, two characters drawn from Greek mythology, and it was famed to be so powerful that it allowed Pollux to sacrifice half his lifespan in order to keep a dying Castor alive.**

**A very interesting point that has been raised concerns the long-term and cross-generational effects of such a signature blending ritual. Evidence points towards the bond ending with either wizard's death, but obscure legends exist that state otherwise. According to Buddhist mages, sometimes the blending is passed on through incarnation, as long as the similarity in the magical psyche is significant enough to withstand the test of time. Such a belief is very far-fetched and based on spirituality more than on actual magical theory. **

**Another opinion is that the structural blending functions like a genetic mutation, and thus becomes a trait that can quite possibly be passed down through inheritance. Yet, in order for the magical signatures to resemble each other strikingly at birth, causing the signature blending effect, two wizards in which this rare trait happens to genetically re-surface must coincide in time and general location, and must both be male. This is an occurance so rare that this theory can neither be proven nor disproven,**" he concludes at last, and slams the dusty book shut, staring at me with these haunting eyes of his.

* * *

For a long while, I say nothing, waiting for the information to really sink in. And then, finally, I get it. If he is right about this, then he was unable to kill me as a child because his magic recognised me to be a wizard with a peculiarly similar magical signature, and thus his action was deemed a betrayal, and his own spell backfired on him in punishment. Our wands share this strange bond, that saved my life during my fourth year, because of this same signature blending. And it must also be why our dreams are so similar, why I could, as a teenager, sense the strongest of his emotions, and why our appearance is rather close, although we are not in any way related.

It would also explain why I accidently became Voldemort's last Horcrux; it was my magical psyche attemtping to prevent its twin from dying. It makes sense.

And yet it makes no sense at all. How can we be destined to be brothers-in-arms seeing as our ideals are so far apart? How can we be meant to be... I don't know... Batman and Robin, when we are David and Goliath, the villain and his nemesis? Fate, this meddlesome bitch, must surely be twinkling her eyes right now. In that very annoying, Dumbledore fashion.

It is one thing having prepared myself psychologically for taking care of this troubled boy, for mentoring him and preventing him from deteriorating into a monster, and it is an entirely different thing accepting that he is meant to be an important part of my life until either of us dies. But, bloody hell, it does make so much sense.

Even that cursed prophecy makes more sense to me now. Neither of us can live while the other one survives. Indeed, neither of us can lead their individual lives independently as long as the other one survives, for this strange magical blending is forcing us to revolve around each other, even as enemies.

I feel the need to sit down.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I can't think of a funny or/and original way of phrasing the fact that everything related to Harry Potter is Rowling's property. When I do, I will let you know.

A/N: Last chapter had a pretty enthusiastic reception, and I was most glad about it, because I tried my best to fill the vast majority of gaps left in canon with a single magical theory, and also give that theory some historical credibility.

To NougatEvolution: I always enjoy personal reviews, so don't worry. When I hear about cases such as yours, I always feel very lucky for the fact that my parents are open-minded and caring people, even willing to read through my slash stories. Heh. I do love mesopotamian history as well. At some point I even considered moving to Turkey in order to study Hittitology, but I was having second thoughst about living in a muslim country. Cheers for your good taste in civilisations.

To Crimson Pooka: Potter and Riddle do not share a brotherly bond. What they do share, like Gilgamesh and Enkidu did, is a sort of fated battle compatibility. Just think Achilles and Patroclus, or pairs of Spartan warrios. Although magical signatures do tend to be very similar in monozygoric twins, that does not in any way make them siblings. It simply means their magicks are 'twinned'. So no worries, slashy goodness will eventually occur, and I have no intention of making it into incest. Although I have nothing against incest, to be honest.

To Koruyuha: I usually do not like the sort of Tom Riddle that is written to be a sinister cynic until he very suddenly falls in love with a mysterious Harry/Hermione and suddenly discovers the power of love. My Tom is not whole. He is not healthy. He is psychologically damaged, and I glad you like him, because I like him too.

To Twilight's Aura, Barranca, endlessvamp and everyone that's being nice to me: You have my endless gratitude for giving me motivation to keep on updating so regularly. Without I would probably not have done half the work I have been doing.

* * *

Chapter 17

Riddle's PoV

I can tell he is truly beginning to grasp the magnitude of this discovery by the way his nostril flare and his Avada-coloured eyes widen ever so slightly. Knowing that this wizard is not only clever but also well-informed in the areas of magical theory, I am certain he has made the necessary connections in order to realise that the signature-blending theory fills in the gaps in our understanding of our common history perfectly. My... no, Voldemort's traitorous killing curse, the identical wand cores, the presence of one another in our twisted dreams. All made clear.

He lets his body sink into a velvet armchair, and I can nearly taste the intense mental activity taking place behind his somewhat impassive features. I feel myself immensely excited, thrilled even, by the possibility that ours could be a case of cross-generational, residual signature-blending, for the doors this ability can open for me are well-nigh unlimited. An extra reserve of magical power, a structural echo to amplify my spells when he is in my presence, perhaps even an anchor to life that will keep me safe from a premature death. But it is not only the magical power unlocked to me that intoxicates and agitates; it is the knowledge, the information, the academic research itself that makes my cheeks flush in sweet, selfish pleasure.

The man stands up and takes a few steps towards me, and it also occurs to me that this is the reason I could so clearly sense his magical aura when we first met in this timeline; it was so similar to mine.

"This is a very interesting theory you've got here, Riddle. It certainly explains quite a few mysteries. A job well done," he tells me, and I am fairly disappointed, I admit, by the fact he sounds rather stern and factual instead of shaken and impressed as he should be. I suppose he is a man of self-restraint, a composed individual, just like I generally am, so I simply accept his reaction and allow myself to feel moderately pleased by his compliment.

"I hope it was worth intruding your privacy at such a late hour," I reply in a darkly coltish manner, still unable to contain my boundless agitation. But his eyes are strangely serious, even paternalising, and suddenly I find my childish excitement a little inappropriate, for I must look like a mere overeager kid at his presence, which annoys me severely. I refuse to let anyone make me feel like any of the pathetic, petty, immature and repulsive little worms called children that unfortunately surround me on a daily basis.

"You are always welcome here. Even if you do not come bearing news," he replies seriously to my somewhat humorous note and his steady, hard glare softens a bit, something which tiggers an unpleasant feeling inside my chest. I gather he means my nightmares, and a bit of surplus, unused hatred creeps back into me, because I dislike being offered any kind of emotional support.

_I am no poor, lost youth in need of your guidance, assistance professor, so I would rather you do not insult me so, _I inwardly snarl in disgust.

"I see," I say rather coldly, and even I am surprised by how hostile these two little words manage to sound, for the room temperature appears to tangibly drop. His lips purse into a bitter smile and his visage morhps into a mask of resignation towards my apparent dislike, something which immediately makes me, despite my best efforts, regret my frigid tone.

"Tom... I..." he begins, but then his expression changes, and asks. "Can I call you Tom?"

I hate my given name, for I find it to be plebeian, common, vulgar and very, very Mugglish, and generally I snap at it being used even by my closest acquaintances. My first urge is thus to react negatively, forbidding this wizard from debasing me so by calling me by this hideous, belittling name. And yet, and I can tell that his request implies more than just the use of my ugly name, and therefore I think carefully before rejecting it. He is perhaps offering me the opportunity to start forging an actual bond with him, and this opportunity is not to be so easily discarded. I opt fot a mutual compromise.

"If I may call you Harry." I respond, and the moment suddenly becomes strangely important, as if a truce is being signed between two enemy nations.

"You may." he says and then he offers me a rather bright, friendly smile, which suddenly makes him looks radiant and handsome, as I unwillingly notice. "Tom then, I was wondering if you would like to spend the Christmas holidays with me and some other friends," he adds and I am a bit confused by how his mood swiftly shifts from gravity to a goofy kind of cheeriness.

I ponder shortly upon his invitation, wondering what the purpose behind it might possibly be, except from getting some more time to convert me away from the dark path. If I turn down his offer, I will find myself having to spend the holidays with my disgusting, loathed foster father, a creature that I would try to avoid even at the possible cost of my sanity. Yet, I do not want to give the impression of being desperate for a chance to escape my adoptive relative, so I am most careful with my phrasing.

"Some other friends?" I simply inquire, digging for more information concerning this enigmatic holiday plan.

"Albus and Gellert, actually," he says, and his eyes glimmer a bit, obviously expecting me to be astonished at his remark. I try my best to avoid offering him the pleasure of rendering me speechless, but that green bastard does manage to make my mouth gape a bit with his surreal, unexpected reply.

"Gellert... Grindelwald?" I ask unecessarily, knowing full well that this is exactly the individual Potter has in mind, and simply trying to gain some time in order to regain my composure.

"Yes, that one. I believe he and Dumbledore have a little something going on, if you catch my meaning," he confesses in stict confidentiality, and I blink a couple of times, as the completely irrational information sinks into my completely unprepared brain. I can tell he is taking his revenge for my having him caught unguarded with my academic discovery, and having him caused to be evidently impressed, despite looking apparently unenthused. It's working, because now I truly am at a loss for words, something which very rarely ever happens to me, being the manipulative, charismatic prodigy I am.

_Grindelwald? And Albus...? They...? What?_

* * *

"I will... keep your offer in mind," I finally utter, still disbelieving and a little shaken. The mental image of Albus Dumbledore, the barmy, foolish, meddlesome coot successfully seducing the legendary Dark Lord is torturing my braincells and unsettling me quite profoundly.

"Sure, you do that. It would also be a rather nice opportunity for us to conduct some research on the extent on the coincidences in the structure of our magical cores. Albus has an extraordinairy library, and some pretty impressive equipment as well," he adds, and I can tell he is trying to ensnare me into accepting his odd proposal for this new information is indeed very tempting, along of course with the chance of meeting Grindelwald. Yet, I am a Slytherin, by blood and by cunning, and I refuse to give my antagonist the pleasure of yielding so easily.

"As I said, I will think about it," I repeat, and glide discreetly towards the door, grabbing the weathered tomes as I make my way to the room's exit. He follows me and opens the door for me, in the manner a well-behaved gentleman would, which irritates me to an irrational degree; I make myself feel better though by thinking that as soon as I leave he will be plunged into serious and troubled speculations on our magical bond.

"Well, have a good night," he says, he says in a tone so offedingly pleasant that I immediately feel my teeth pressing hard against one another in infuriation.

"Have pleasant dreams of my possibly maniacal future self pining you against gore-covered vegetation, Harry," I venomously reply, hoping to disturb him the best I can. I close the door behind me gently, and I quietly walk across the deserted corridor, various thoughts and emotions swirling inside my brilliant mind.

* * *

As I take the stairs down to the Slytherin common room, I unfortunately come across the heinous Slytherin Head Girl, a passive and sullen female called Prince, as she wriggles around the empty castle.

"Oh, Tom. You shoudln't be up that late," she tells me, but she does not look concerned or judgemental; she simply looks unbelievably ugly, dull and defeated. A little voice inside me suggets I rid the world of her graceless, uninteresting existence, and my wand and twiches a bit. I had been pleased enough with the interaction between me and Potter, this worthless animal did not need to come here and remind why I detest most of mankind with such passion.

"You shoudln't either. Go back to your rooms," I order her with a sharp and commanding voice, and although she is a few years older than me and a Head Girl, she does not question my authority, but simply lowers her head and retreats. What a pathetic, submissive being, I think to myself, holding back my desire to maim her for being so gut-clenchingly pitiful. Although I do feel a surge of pleasure at being so swiftly obeyed, I absolutely loath the servile insects willing to tend to my every desire without a mind of their own. The Voldemort I have been told about by Potter has obviously gotten over this internal conflict and has happily settled for brainless, grovelling, cowardly followers, another large distinction between me and him.

I have not forgotten how to enjoy a challenge. I hope I never will.

Nagini welcomes me back to my room with teasing comments about nightly acitivities, and slithers carefully, elegantly, up my body until her head is rubbing against my cheekbone; I swear that if she was a cat, she would probably be purring. Inwardly, I thank Potter for her company, for she is worth a thousand dull, will-less Eileen Princes.

* * *

Potter's PoV

Wednesdays are rather repetitive and boring. Of course, during all my lessons my mind is steadily fixated on Tom Riddle, and on the possibility of us being residual signature twins. At lunch, I actually approach the boy as he walks out of the Great Hall, and ask him whether he has anything planned for this evening. He does not appear to have had much sleep, but that cpmes as no surprise because honestly neither have I. He looks mildly surprised, but replies something about being reluctantly willing to have his day made a little less dull. I suggest we meet at 8 in front of the patch of lilies next to the Hogwarts Lake. He nods unemotionally.

Sitting amongst the beauitful flowers, I wait for the young student to join me, wondering why the hell I actually invited him to spend some time with me. I am actually not sure what I had in mind, because being the Gryffindor I am, I acted purely based on an impulse. Eventually, he arrives, and the first thing he does in wince at the pretty lilies surrounding me. I guess he woudln't know that these flowers make me feel a subtle bond to my brave mother, that I so unfairly lost when I was still an infant.

"Can we go sit somewhere less nauseatingly picturesque?" he suggets, and his expression implies that he thinks of flowers what most people think of cockroaches. I nod, and we move a few feet to the right.

"I have been thinking about your signature-blendign theory, and since I do not like unproven speculation, I thought we should try tapping into each others magical reserves in order to test our presumed structural bond," I explain to the boy, in a moment of improvisation. I congratulate myself for my pure genius, because actually I had nothing as intelligent in mind at all. His eyes gleam impatiently, and I can see that my suggestion clearly excites him.

"Of course," he replies, and his magic flares up a bit .

"Lets start then. Try tapping into my magic. I will try lowering the restraints on it as much as I possibly can," I immediately point out, and I get up, a few lily petals still stuck on my robes. I remove all control from my magic, which has grown surprisingly strong during all the wars and the suffering I have had to pull myself through. I can now feel the ripples of power distorting the air, and Riddle's expression is torn between repressed fascination and his usual contempt.

He starts casting a transfiguration spell, slowly turning the grass surrounding the Great Lake to withered weed, and as the patch of brown grows and grows within the green field, I can sense his magic being temporarily drained to an increasing degree. Although he is only thirtheen years old, his power does not run out for a seemingly endless time, and the dark, twisting weeds nearly reach the Forbidden Forest. Knowing already full well how excpetional a wizard he is, I still feel a little intimidated. Then, finally, his magical strenght begins to become exhausted, and the patch's growth is less and less pronounced. Eventually, it stops.

It is then that I see the handsome boy's features darken in intense concentration, and for a while nothing happens. Then, slowly, I begin to feel an alien force probing my magical aura in a way that reminds me of unsuccessful Legillimency. The probing becomes stronger, and then, somehow, the alien magic intrudes mine, and a channel between them established. The rush from me towards the boy is so sudden and great that we are both nearly swept to the ground. The income of magic is hard for Riddle to control, and a blast is produced, suddenly causing every green plant in a radius of a couple miles to wither.

Riddle looks even more pale than usual, perhaps about to feint, but his dangerous blue eyes are shining with immense self-satisfaction as he surveys his surroundings. Around us an endless land of death and decay unfolds as far as the eye can see, and I feel an endless sadness at the boy's chosen spell, a spell of destruction and decomposition.

"_Finite incantem_" I whisper, and the infertile landscape begins to burst with life, while next to me the young wizard collapses, depleted.

* * *

I am very worn out by this experiment myself, my magic core exhausted for the time being, so I tiredly kneel next to the half-unconscious student. He looks terrifyingly worn out, and I curse myself for letting him strain himself so much in his attempt to acquire increased magical power. His morbid choice of spell still haunts me unpleasantly, and for a brief moment I wonder if, instead of cancelling Voldemort's birth, I will end up empowering him. The thought is chased away by the angelic beauty of the boy's features, as the sun falls gently onto his weary face.

_I had always wondered how it was that everyone managed to remain so blind to the deranged violence inside Tom Riddle's soul until he literally became a disfigured monster._

_Now I think I am beginning to see._

In a matter of seconds he opens his eyes again, his breathing still a bit laboured, and he looks considerably horrified at finding his head resting on a patch of lilies, next to my kneeling self. He abruptly gets up, still a little dizzy, and stares at his surroundings, the beautiful fields of blossming flowers.

"That was interesting," he states, and his voice is somewhat breatheless.

"Why did you choose such a morbid spell? One would think you would not be very fond of death after this disturbing childhood of yours," I ask him as a reply, getting up and walking a few steps towards him. He turns around, and suddenly his face is soft, delicate and frail, his eyes falling on me with an emotion I am unable to identify; for a moment he looks nothing like himself.

"I am not. I simply wanted to see if you could still reverse the spell with the little power you had left. Which you did. You are pretty impressive," he says in an eerie, fragile voice, and smiles at me. I am very unsettled by his exceedinly unusual behaviour, for this can not be the spiteful, murderour Riddle I recently came to know. Perhaps he is trying to extend his authority over me by seducing me with his innocent, I-am-a-misunderstood-orphan appeal and his doe eyes, trying to take advantage of my paternal instincts. I should be on my guard.

"Thank you. I guess I did," I answer flatly, and it occurs to me that the boy must still be in some sort of trance due to the massive, uncontrolable influx of magical power that travelled through his body. He surely does look dazed and disoriented. "But I thought you knew enough of my abilities to stop testing me by now," I add.

"Oh, I am not testing you. I simply like power. I enjoy witnessing you employ yours, it's very... fulgurous" he mutters, and by now I am absolutely certain that he is indeed intoxicated by the magical overdose. Immediately he confirms it with his next, hesitent statement which is "I am not sure why I am saying this."

I cast a "_Finite Delirium_" and he gradually regains his composure. Once again, he looks cynical and cool, and I am almost relieved at the familiar sight. Of course, he pretends that he did not just act in a very bizarre way, and I decide not to contradict him.

"I guess there is a lot of work to be done if we want this signature-blending to be of any practical use," I remark casually as soon as he is back to normal. If his quest for additional sources of magical power can be used to make him spend more time with me and become more human, then it should.

"Indeed," he states simply, brushing some soil off his left sleeve. "The Christmas break would be a good time to do this discreetly. You would have to convince my foster father though," he then says, and inwardly I grin, because he has just accepted my invitation from yesterday, which is a good step for both of us. He does not wait for me to answer, but instead walks off towards the majestic castle of Hogwarts.

His slender form is bathed in the light of sunset.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: If there was a way to make money out of fanfiction, I would probably be a millionaire. And if I owned Harry Potter, I would try to make him see sense about Ginny. She's so dull.

A/N: I'm writing as fast as I can here. My hands are trembling from overexercising myself on the keyboard, and I haven't had a good night's sleep for ages. Having a compulsive need to get a plot bunny out of your system can be horrible at times. REVIEWS are very appreciated. All kinds of them.

To NougatEvolution: You know, I wrote Slytherin Head Girl, as in the Head Girl that happens to be a Slytherin. Just like Obama is the black president of the USA (which does not necessarily imply there is a white one, too). I guess it was unclear, though. Now that I re-read it I see your point to be very valid. Thanks for pointing that out.

I really disagree with you about Eileen's age, though. Severus was born in 1960 according to canon. My Eileen was born in 1923. So she must have had a child in her mid wizarding thirties, in order to comply to canon Severus' birth. Which is around one's late twenties in muggle years. I see nothing wrong with that. Also, in 1996 her sixth year potion book is "around 50 years old". If she was in sixth year in 1939 (and thus in seventh year in 1940) that would mean the book is exactly 57 years old, which is "around 50" in my opinion.

About Harry in the lilies... When I write first person PoV right means to the speaker's right hand. but I gather it could be confusing. If it's Potter saying we moved to the right, he obviously means to my right, as I am staring at the lake in my mind's eye. But that's probably because I already have the scene ready inside my brain. And yes, Harry was seated until Tom told him they should move. About whether Tom sat down at any point or not, to be honest I don't think he would, but I didn't bother writing in that detail at all. Sorry! I guess I am lazy.

As for Potter saying "majestic castle", although he wouldn't actually say it, I am not sure he wouldn't think it. He did grow up in the ugly muggle world, and I believe that the magical world will never cease to have an impression on him. Hogwarts especially he must feel endless affection for, so I wouldn't even flinch if I wrote him thinking "the amazing awesome magical castle that I adore even though I am not a kid anymore". But generally, there difference between his way of thinking as Riddle's admittedly annoying, conceited purple prose should be fairly clear.

Oh, and I don't mind nit-picking. It's just that in order to reply to all of it I need half the chapter. I love your reviews though,very constructive.

To Pouf: You wrote in your review "_And Harry... is like, "Come here, little fishy~ Look at the nice bait~~~ I bring /knowledge/ and a /Dark Lord/!" _" and I shall endlessly love you for that.

To Bubblegum Black, Farwalker, Barrance and Twilight's Aura: My!Harry has seen a lot, and though he sometimes still acts a little goofy, it is obvious that he knows exactly what he is in for. He is not really a super!Harry, but he is an experienced, jaded wizard. He trusts Riddle because he knows that unless he does so, the boy is never going to open to him, not in a thousand years. It is a necessary risk, and Potter has very little to lose anyway. Concerning the sexual chemistry, Tom knows he is attractive and I am afraid that, like any good sociopath, he won't be afraid to use it. Yet, I can't really imagine him topping Harry, despite the very real possibility he might try to seduce him. But we're not there yet, they are still struggling to establish a simple human relationship for now.

* * *

Chapter 17

Potter's PoV

I stare at the rather pleasant little house in front of me, and I finally decide to ring the bell. After a few seconds, the door slowly opens and behind it I see a muggle in his forties, with greasy hair and a bit of a stomach. He is in a fairly good mood, and greets in a surprisingly firendly manner. He does not seem at all like the kind of man that would harm a child, for in spite of his very plain physique, his voice is gentle and his expression kind.

"I am a teacher from Tom's school. May I have a word with you?" I state in an equally polite way, and immediately I see a shadow clouding the man's eyes. He lets me in without a word.

"I hope he didn't do anything wrong. Please tell me he isn't in trouble," he mumbles, and from the bleak tone of his voice and his pensive featues I can tell that he is actually expecting me to go on and say horrible things about the boy.

"Nothing of the sort. Tom Riddle may be a bit of a difficult boy, but he is a pleasure to teach nonetheless," I reply, and the shadow leaves the man face. Instead, a wide smile appears on it. He looks genuinely pleased to hear what I just said, and I can, oddly enough, tell he cares about the boy. Which is brave of him, since I can only imagine how much the young Slytherin must hate him simply for being a Muggle.

"So mister..?" he begins as he moves towards the kitchen.

"Potter."

"Mr Potter then, would you like me to make some coffee for you?" he inquires, and I say something about preferring tea. In a few minutes we are both seated in the living room, the man drinking a lukewarm coffee while I wait for my tea to cool a bit.

"My reason for coming here is that I wish to ask for your permission to keep Tom Riddle at school during the Christmas break," I finally break the comfortable silence. He looks at me, fairly surprised.

"What for?" he asks, and sips a gulp of coffee.

"Riddle is a very talented student, I must let you know, but he is also an extremely troubled boy. His studies are amongst the few things that, in my opinion, have a positive effect on his character. I fear that without constant intellectual challenges to face, he will resort to rather odd ways of entertaining himself," I reply, testing the waters about how much this man really knows of his adopted son.

The man sighs, and scratches the top of his head a little, his eyes filling with an endless sadness. He purses his lips in thought, and his eyes are staring, unfocused, into nothing. Eventually, he looks up at me, with an expression of resignation on his face.

"I know exactly what you mean, Mr Potter. This boy, as much fondness as I have come to feel for him, he is certainly not stable psychologically. I truly regret having to say that. He only too often results to violence and lies, you know. Wizardry, or whatever it is that he learns in that school of his, seems to be amongst the few things that genuinely excite him and keep his hatred at bay..." the man mutters, and I am surprised at how easily he confesses this to me. He must have been needing someone to talk with about his son for a very long time.

"How is the relationship between you?" I question softly, wondering whether he will agree to reply to such a personal question. He sips some more coffee.

"Mr Potter, I have always wanted a son. When my wife died, I decided that I would rather adopt a child and raise it alone than grow old without experiencing fatherhood. This is how I came to adopt Tom. But you see, Tom is not really a child, in the sense that he doesn't really need or want a guardian. I very quickly realised that he was disgusted by any sign of affection and any physical contact. Even though I tried my best to be a kind and welcoming parent and to meet the boy's needs, I was regarded with unconditional hatred.

I am now, after years of living with Tom, certain that something horrible must have happened to him when he was no more than a baby. I cannot otherwise explain why he is so incapable of emotions. Everytime I try to hug my son, Mr Potter, like any father would, I come face to face with aversion and ire. I had been told by Mrs Cole, who runs the orphanage, that Tom was a very hostile, dark child, but in my enthusiasm I thought my love could cure his... whatever has wounded him... away.

But I am not sure there is much to be done for my poor Tom. He does terrible, terrible things, you know. He sometimes tortures strays, I know he does, although he never admits it. The other kids around the neighbourhood are afraid of him, and in their eyes I can see that he has been hurting them, too. When his Hogwarts letter came, I thought that perhaps his behaviour was due to the fact that he was able to do magic, but did not have the opportunity to use it, resulting in tension building up inside him. But it was not the case. He is still as cruel as he always was, and still insults me as bitterly. Me, who gave all I had to raise him alone, and provide for him all he ever needed," the man explains to me, and in his eyes I see unshed tears.

I am a little horrified at the fact that Riddle's cruelty is enough to make a grown make wish to cry when he is only just thirteen himself.

I am also relatively shocked by the unexpectedly lengthy confession, but I feel understanding and fondness flooding me. I feel for this man, who has been bearing the burden of loving Tom Riddle, despite the boy's bottomless hatred. Who has given the best he had and all his affection to a boy that could never understand a kiss between a father and a son as anything else but a sexual advance. I smile at him supportively.

"It must have been very difficult for you, Mr Hornby. Your adopted son is indeed a very cruel young man, as I fear that without the right guidance he could easily become a criminal, or something even worse, as he feels the need to take revenge on the world for having suffered so much as a child. But academia and witchcraft does bring out the best in him, and this is way I feel the need to keep him at school over the break. Because I fear what he might do otherwise. I have his best interests in mind, sir, for I also have come to care about Tom. I think I can help him," I tell the man, trying to reassure him the best I can.

"If you think you can help him, Mr Potter, then you have my blessing to keep him over the break, and my best wishes. I would do anything to avoid seeing Tom ending up in prison, or even worse... I just... I am sure that as a fellow wizard, you will know how to handle him better than I possibly could," he admits in a pained way, and it truly saddens me so see the ache in his dark eyes. I offer him a form, and he signs it without a monent's hesitation.

"I love my son, Mr Potter, even though I know he will never give me any of this affection back. Please, do not think me some beast of a man, although I know that on a few occasions my confrontations with Tom did turn violent. You must understand that I have offered him so much, and all he does is avoid me, scorn me, insult me; it is hard not to feel anger towards that kind of ingratitude. The violence within him has driven me to become a worse man than I really am. I do not think any other man could have done better with Tom than I did," he additionally states, and I can not actually blame him for his words.

"No, I don't think so either. Without you he would probably have deteriorated faster than he already has," I tell him, and at last his face becomes lit with a positive emotion. The truth is that what I just told him is a lie, though, for I think that either way Riddle cannot be redeemed by the power of affection. The only power that can harness him, it seems, is power itself. I proceed to thanking him for confiding in me, and assure him that his help is very precious to me. I leave.

* * *

Apparating back to my rooms, I find myself in deep thought. I just met a man who broke his foster son's arm. Was he a bad person? No, he really wasn't. He was a man who despite his difficult life, sacrificed the little money and time he had to raise a difficult, spiteful boy without getting anything in return. Was he a saint? No, he wasn't one of these either.

There is no black and white in this world, war has taught me. This world in an endless landscape of grey. Grey, grey, grey as far as the eye can see.  
I place the signed form on the desk, and pour myself some firewhiskey.

* * *

Riddle PoV

"Do you ever think about

What a lovely place the world would be

Without all the people

That make life so unpleasant?

All the small, petty people

All the ugly, annoying people

It's hard not to think about it

I like to think about

What could be

Done to these people

Something cruel

Something mean

Something just

But the meaner the better

Goodness knows they deserve it - Boyd Rice"

The Slytherin common room is irritatingly crowded, full of arrogant, cunning little kids, believing themselves to be infinitely more important than they truly are. They are gossiping amonst themselves, exchanging nasty, distorted rumours drenched in malevolence and venom, and flirting shamelessly with one another, males and females alike. What am I doing inside this pathetic nest of conceited worms, I wonder to myself, but then it actually occurs to me that I am fortunate to have been placed in Slytherin in spite of my mixed parentage, for the other houses would have indeed been worse. I am also participating in these appaling and meaningless conversations, throwing a well-constructed, witty, cynical comment every now and then, if only to make the girls swoon and the guys look up at me with unhidden admiration.

I am certain that by the time I am fifteen or sixteen, I will practically own this common room, for already my unspoken authority is beginning to creep inside these little children's hearts. And then I can finally start forming my own, personal army, the one I have so often fantasised about; Death Eaters, I will call them, and I will teach them how to be strong and worthy of receiving my orders.

My thoughts suddenly shift to Potter, for in all my imaginary glory I have forgotten to take him into account. He would probably be less than thrilled if I were to try and form my own regiments of Dark wizards, I suppose, so perhaps this plan needs to be reconsidered. After all, despite the sweet pleasure that power over other people can offer, I doubt I actually need any followers whatsoever when I am considerably more powerful than all of them put together.

Without any good reason, I decide to impress these little kids and establish my authority again with some genuinely impressive magic, so I suddenly mention something about corporeal patronuses being rather awesome, only to be faced with equal amamzement and disbelief at my claim to have produced one. I concentrate on the memory Potter recently amplified for me, the memory of my first sight of the castle, and I cast the spell elegantly.

The large, silver snake bursts out of my wand, regal and graceful but also dangerous and shining with magical radiation. It begins to slither up my body, hissing lowly, and I caress its aristocratic, scaly head.

The common room stares with silent astonishment, and a few occasional squeals can be heard as well, a sound which I particularly dislike. The only ones restraining their awe are Abraxas Malfoy, who is simply lifting one of his golden eyebrows in appreciation, and Walburga Black, smirking darkly from a corner of the room. I do pefer to associate with these two infinitely more than with my other fellow Slytherins, for their composure is admirable, they are fairly powerful casters and they also carry the names of ancient, worthy families. I cast a minuscule dark smile their way, before I dissipate my Patronus and retreat to my bed.

I let the excitable imagination of young students take care of this incident, for I am sure that the way rumours work here, by tomorrow half the school will believe that I epically summoned a three-headed dragon. Truth be told though, I do not actually care too much about the petty opinions these silly kids might be forming on me, for I doubt these opinions will ever be of any importance in my life. My eyes are set on higher targets.

* * *

"Nagini, do you think there isss any meaning behind the sssimilaritiess between my magic and the green man'ss, or iss it sssimply a coindicende that we both happened to exhibit resssidual signature-blending and thuss reacted to one another when he wasss ssstil an infant?" I ask my lovely familar, certain that she can provide a rather rational answer.

"Coincidencsse, fate... I think they are sssimply different namess for the ssame force. The sstructure of your magic iss twinned with thiss man'sss. There iss no additional meaning to thisss, for asss a fact alone it hass all the meaning it needsss. If you are assking why it iss the cassse, then I don't know. I am ssimply a sssnake, after all," she hisses thoughfully, and rubs her head against my hand fondly. Her affection is perhaps the only affection I ever managed not to be repulsed by and shy away from, and perhaps I am even enjoying, for I respond by trailing my finger down her slender body. She makes a very pleasant companion, silent and discreet most of the time, independent, but also devoted to me and always willing to discuss my thoughts and worries in an intelligent manner.

No doubt that even as a crazed and decaying Dark Lord she was the one creature I came to care about, I think to myself, fully believing Potter's piece of information on my relationship with my viper.

It is my relationship with Potter that I cannot figure at as easily.

My magic-drunken, silly words come to mind, the ones I so stupidly uttered under the effect of my magical overdose. "You are impressive," I had told him during my moments of intoxication, "I enjoy witnessing you employ your power, it's very... fulgurous," I has also said, revealing my guilty pleasure. These words, unfortunately, did correspond to the shameful truth, but I had no intention whatsoever of letting the green man know. Too late now, I guess; although he could have inferred that I appreciate witnessing his power since he must realise how attracted to power I am.

The feeling of tapping into his overwhelming reserve of magical power had been simply amazing; a moment of pure bliss, feeling the sudden influx of magic rippling through my body. The simple memory of it sends shivers down my spine, for it was a sensation that can not be described with words; vastly superior to any other pleasure I have thus far experienced. I really do look forward to spending this Christams break with Potter, Mumble-sore and Lord Grindelwald, and I hope my foster father does not object to that, thus forcing me to be unecessarily cruel to him. This holiday, I bet my wand, it will not be boring.

* * *

Potter's PoV

Thursday means double Transfiguration with the third years, and thus a nice opportunity to spend time with the dark fledgeling. He walks into the empty classroom and for the first time, he actually greets me in a fairly civilised, if not friendly manner. I smile at him and greet him back, inviting him to take a seat. At last, his face carries signs of some decent sleep having occured. There are no glamours underneath his eyes today, and his skin is a little less pasty than it has been lately.

"Today I will try to teach a very difficult spell. It's actually the spell that helped me achieve some impressive victories during the wizarding civil war. It actually is a spell of my own invention, albeit with and a little help from a very knowledgeable friend of mine. It works in a way similar to that of a Patronus, only what it does is charm an area intead of producing a magical apparition," I begin. He looks very interested, and his generally hollow eyes seem to come alive.

"What are the properties of the charmed area, then, sir?" he asks impatiently, and for the first time he calls me "sir" without being horribly sarcastic.

"The charmed area annuls Dark curses that are either cast within it or pass through it," I reply, and I can't help but smile, knowing my charm to have been a momentous achievement. Tom Riddle raises both of his thin eyebrows, and mutters a little "Oh!" He is somewhat impressed, I deduce.

"There is another big difference between my spell and the Patronus spell though, and it is not simply the incantation. It is the emotion used to give birth to the desired charm. The Patronus uses one's projected happiness. The Ager charm, ager meaning, as you must know, "field" in Latin, uses one's projected affection and desire to protect," I explain, and Riddle's face drops, his stare clouded. I gather he must think himself unable to cast such a spell. "Let me demonstrate," I add.

I close my eyes and let the memories flood by mind, discarding the memories of war, loss and horror, trying to fill my head with pictures of my loved ones. At first it is hard, for all I can think of initially is blood and curses. But I manage.

I think of Hermione, and how much I love her, her and bushy hair and unnatural fondness for books. I think of Ginny flying on a broom, laughing, and how I would die to give her the opportunity to laugh again. I think of Sirius and Remus, how much affection I still hold for them, and how much I would sacrifice to see them again. I think of Albus, the adorable fool, smiling and shoving lemon drops down his throat, and of Riddle, the beautiful, troubled boy that I am fighting so hard to save.

"_Expecto Ager Curam_" I whisper. And slowly a bronze glow creeps out of my wand, growing and extending. It drips the the ground, and begins to grow, covering the floor with a fragile, shimmering light. The whole classroom is soon glowing softly, and from the enchanted ground grass begins to grow, flowers start budding, and even a strange, distant sound of birds singing can be heard. Whereas the Patronus spell fills one with happiness, the Ager spell offers a sense of peace and protection, which I savour by closing my eyes.

Tom Riddle is staring at the lovely vegetation growing around him rather bewildered.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

The glow is bronze in its hue, but it's gently sparkling nature is indeed fairly similar to that of a corporeal Patronus, I observe with interest. It is very powerful charm, I also deduce, for it contains auditory elements as well, as even the delicate aroma of blossoms in spring. Even though I find it all nauseatingly sweet, I am nonetheless considerably impressed by this charm, for cancelling Dark curses is a very difficult outcome to achieve.

"Why don't you try casting a Cruciatus at me?" he asks me suddenly. I give him a look of evident distrust, for he is actually asking me to perform an Unforgivable inside a Hogwarts classroom. Yet, if this was a ploy in order to get me to cast a Dark curse, I am not sure he would have gone through the effort of casting such a complex spell specifically for that purpose; enraging me would have been a much easier way to get me to cast something dubious.

"I know you have used the Cruciatus before, Riddle. On these poor kids in your neighbourhood, too. If my plan was to turn you in, I would have. Plus, in the future you have had me under the pain curse more than a few times, so even if my charm fails to stop your curse, it's not a big deal. Just cast it," he observes gently, and I am very annoyed that he knows of my misbehaviours. Also, it feels very strange to hear that I have had this immensely powerful warrior under my Cruciatus in his future, almost wrong.

And I almost cringe, mostly at the guilty excitement the thought of him writhing at my feet brings.

I cast the curse nonetheless, a level-headed, softly-spoken _Crucio_, keeping my face blank, and I watch as the twisting dark magic leaves my wand slowly and then begins to dissipate, just like that. Although I was fairly certain that his Ager charm would work as expected, for he is the spell's inventor after all, it is still remarkable to witness a strong Dark curse simply vanish into thin air. The green man smiles just a little bit, and then he casts a non-verbal _finite incantem_, returning the classroom to its initial nature.

"You try. As I am sure you noticed, the incantation is _Expecto Ager Curam,_" he suggests, and suddenly I become irritated; why would he want me to try a charm he knows I will be unable to cast if not to belittle me? But there is nothing belittling in his steady, green eyes, so after a few seconds of annoyed hesitation I decide to give the spell a try, despite the try being doomed to failure.

I put great efforting into thinking of someone I care about, and I come face to face with the great void inside my heart. I search, desperately, for an emotion of affection, but as expected, my mind finds no such memory amongst the bleak images of my childhood. I am sure that before the well incident, I might have felt something akin to fondness for my care-takers, but these memories are too distant for me to grab. I try nonetheless, and I eventually hiss "_Expecto Ager Curam_".

Nothing happens, of course; not even the faintest, most fragile glow at the tip of my wand, and this was so expected that I don't even feel remotely disappointed. I simply shrug, impassively. The green man does not looks surprised at my failure, obviously, and I wonder whether this is some twisted sort of lesson in humility.

"I looks like you need a bit of assistance. Lower your Occlumentic wards for me, if you wish," he says, and it sounds like a polite kind of command, which a bit unsettling and even vexing. I do lower said guards though, knowing full well that a non-consensual Legillimency session from such a powerful wizard will be very unpleasant for me. I feel his familiar magic enter my mind, and he takes a unhesitant plunge into my recent memories.

**_I am lying it my bed, my thoughts galloping away in far lands and my body resting on the soft mattress. Then I feel a small, soft nudge on my left hand, and I look down only to find Nagini prodding me playfully. I smile at her, thinking that despite her profound serpentine wisdom, she is merely a child. I pick her up carefully and place her on my abdomen, also pushing a pillow behind my head, so I can stare down at my little lady. I find her very elegant and charming, and I tell her so teasingly, causing her to hiss something about being embarassed and what a rascal I am. I chuckle a bit, and trail my long fingers down her smooth, scaly spine, caressing her fondly. I am really glad to own Nagini, I think to myself, and I wouldn't want something to happen to her._**

**_I am really glad to own Nagini, I think to myself, and I wouldn't want something to happen to her._**

**_I am really glad to own Nagini, I think to myself, and I wouldn't want something to happen to her. _**Potter pulls out, and he does not need to urge me to cast this time, for I do so myself, knowing that now is porbably the best timing I'll ever get.

"_Expecto Ager Curam_" I mumble a little dizzily due to just having been legillimensed, and at first I do not notice anything happening. But gradually, the tip of my wand begins to exhibit the familar bronze glow, if only faintly, and the glow begins to expand a bit. Although the magical power required for this spell is not impossibly great, I feel a bit of sweat trickling down my forehead, for keeping the charm alive is really straining my abilities.

Eventually, a single drop of light drips from my wand and onto the floor. Where it lands, a single, small, delicate flower begins to grow, and I stare at it in disbelief.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, their mothers, their fathers, Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, his phoenix, his sweets, the common rooms, even the damn girls' toilets... It all belongs to Rowling. I wonder where she manages to store all of it.

A/N: To Barranca,farwalker,Reader: Indeed, you got it right. That's indeed the strategy that Harry's trying to use when it comes to teaching Tom Riddle new spells. But will this trick alone be enough to slowly change the boy's nature? I doubt it.

To NougatEvolution: Mmmm, I thought it was "around". I'll go check the greek versions, perhaps there was a slight mistranslation. Thanks for pointing it out. As far as physical contact goes, I do admit that many people feel uncomfortable when hugged/kissed. But generally, when one adopts a child that has suffered such loneliness, they expect it to be starved for physical contact and affection, and that is often the case. Furthermore, there is a difference between trying to avoid this kind of contact but understanding people's intentions, and misunderstanding it completely, thinking it to be a sexual advance or a form of domination, like Tom does. I appreciate your personal point of view though, despite the fact it made want to strap you down somewhere and hug you.

Allasvitkona, PhoenixfromtheFlame: Thanks for your comments, it's nice to have new readers every now and then leaving me a few lines. Boosts my motivation!  
Anyway, I am afraid this will be a rather short chapter, the reason being that I have a photographic project to complete for tomorrow, and I will therefore soon need to leave. Also, it's 40 degreed celsius over here, and that doesn't help me concentrate. Please be lenient and don't throw rotting fruit at me. On a more pleasant note, this chapter will contain the first real discreet hints of slash.

* * *

Chapter 19

Riddle's PoV

"A respectable effort, Tom. Congratulations," says Potter, and although my initial reaction is to inwardly cringe at my hideous given name, I do feel a surge of pride soothing my irritation and making me ever so slightly smile. Having tried quite hard to maintain a steady flow of emotion towards my wand and express it as magical power, I now find myself a little breathless, panting even, which must not sound too graceful. I quickly cast a small cleaning spell on my face, to get rid of the very unflattering glow of perspiration that must currently be decorating my generally pristine visage. It is not actually a matter of vanity really; I simply know that my appearance is one of my most cherished weapons, and thus I have to pay its maintenance cost.

I look down to my charm's outcome with a feeling of pleasant surprise; it is a single, delicate and fair little flower, glowing bronze before my feet. I had not actually expected to achieve anything with this incantation, but it seems that even the tiniest, most unimportant bit of affection, such as the rather detached sense of caring I hold for my familiar, can produce a tangible result. Temporarily mesmerised by the frail shining of the beautiful plant, I waste a small slice of my time simply staring at it, before I finally cast a hurried finite.

"One day you will be able to fill a whole classroom with these," the green man states suddenly, in a strangely factual voice, and his intense green eyes are placed steadily onto my own. Once again, I get the eerie feeling that his eyes see beyond what normal eyes can see, that their killing curse colour digs deep into one's soul, stripping it of all facades.

"I somehow doubt it," I reply with a sneer, and despite my honest intentions, my answer comes out deeply sarcastic, biting, venomous. But the wizard is not the slightest bit taken aback, I notice; he simple lets out an inaudible sigh that does not actually erase his previous soft smile.

"I don't," he offers casually, and somehow I feel equally threatened and comforted by his subtle confidence, but let neither show on my impassive features. I almost want to become an insane, disfigured, dishonorable serpentine monster just to prove him wrong. Almost. Only I don't.

"I spoke with your father, by the way. He granted his permission for you to stay over with me during the Christmas break," he suddenly adds, a statement completely unrelated to our previous discussion which catches me a little off guard. I also note his choice of words, "stay over with me"; a strangely intimate phrasing that produces in me feelings of discomfort, but also guilty excitement. Afraid I will reveal too much with my voice if I word my response, I decide to simply nod instead, and I prepare my leave.

"Have a nice day, Tom." the green man says gently but firmly, just before I open the door, and I am tempted to regret having allowed him to use my given name in all its ugly muggle glory.

"Have an equally pleasant one yourself..." I begin, and I want to conclude my sentence with "Harry", I want to spit his name back with a nonchalant air of mockery, but instead "...sir," comes out of my mouth, traitorously. My respect for this man is dangerously high, I realise, if my mind rebels against vexing him intentionally.

I walk out.

* * *

My mind begins to reel around various, complex thoughts, and, as I walk through the corridors, I mentally distance myself from my surroundings; the sounds, the smells, the footsteps behind me. But suddenly I feel a hand being placed on my shoulder, and I turn around in obvious irritation, only to come face to face with the green man again, who has apparently followed me out. I guess I need to improve onmy reflexes.

"I just wanted to say, be careful not to let anything leak on Gellert by boasting to your classmates or anything. Albus will be very upset if the Aurors catch his Dark Lord, and in the end it is only the Dementors that get to kiss him, you know," he whispers in a low, conspiratory tone with a very playful streak to it, and, initially, I grit my teeth in anger at his implying I could carelessly boast about meeting Grindelwald to my fellow Slytherins. When he adds his dusturbing little pun on kisses, however, I realise that he is clearly being humorous, and my jaw immediately relaxes, although the pun itself is a little unsettling.

"My lips are sealed," I mutter lowly, and I elegantly trace my lips with two touching fingers, imitating slowly the motion of a zipper. The green man smirks at me cheerily, and then walks off in an oddly hasty manner. It only is then that it occurs to me just how unintentionally seductive this movement of mine must have seemed, how inappropriately suggestive. I need to question my subconscious about this later, I note, for it seems I am trying to gain some measure of power over Potter by means of... well, by means I shouldn't be using on this particular individual. Perhaps I am simply so used to employing such techniques on the mindless, weak people around me that they have begun to occur naturally.

I glide towards the Great Hall to get lunch, for having not eaten very well during the last week has had unpleasant effects on my body. As I walk towards my regular seat at the Slytherin table, I can feel more than a few pairs of eyes, filled with petty emotions ranging from admiration to infatuation, clinging onto my robes irritatingly. I do admit that being able to provoke boundless attraction is a very effective means of control over others, and yet I currently feel more uncomfortable than empowered, weirdly enough. I am beginning to despise knowing how many of these morons around me have been imagining themselves my lovers or friends, for it is hubris for these worthless worms to view me as an object of desire, as much as it may serve my interests.

I want to be looked upon with fear, with astonishement and amazement by these pathetic, pitiful little wizards; for none of them are even close to my caliber, and they have no right to dare view themselves as my potential comrades or mates. I hold nothing but the deepest scorn and contempt for them inside my darkened heart, and nothing can rectify this, I am afraid. Perhaps my pervious conclusion that I should not even subconsciouly try to use my masculine wiles on individuals as perceptive and dangerous as the green man was completely wrong. Perhaps it is the rest of them that I shouldn't grace with my subtle seduction; at least Potter is a wizard of my level and we seem to make surprisingly good use of our time together. Furthermore, we also share this signature-blending bond, it seems, which will help us both amplify our magical power.

And yet, the very thought feels like pure, insolent hubris; trying to manipulate the time-traveler in such a crude manner.

* * *

Potter's PoV

Well, it is not as if I am even mildly surprised. I do know, after all, how Voldemort managed to get hold of Hepzibah Smith's cup. She was highly infatuated with Riddle's facade of a polite and handsome young man, I remember from the memories I have witnessed, and he had certainly induced and sustained this infatuation consciously. Furthermore, I have seen how he bends both male and female students around his fingers with this gorgeous face of his. No wonder he would eventually decide to try this on me.

Maybe he wasn't doing in on purpose, I tell myself. Maybe it simply comes naturally to him to try and be appealing, influential, seductive. Whatever the case, it will not make any difference. I have left everything I have ever loved behind to come and create a better future for all of us. My heart is still with Ron, bloodied and barely breathing in a St Mungo's bed, Hermione, her tears dry and her eyes hard with pain, Ginny, lost and broken. I do want the best for Tom Riddle, and I honestly hope I can help him lead a full, happy life.

And yet, when I look into his eyes I can't help but see the monster he is, and the monster he could become.

He can't really be a thirteen year old human, my mind tells me. Well, nearly fourteen, but still. The way he so easily makes use of his charm, his intellect and his sensuality is too confident, too knowing for such a young man. And yet I have seen his tumultuous nightmares, his severe trauma, and I know that a part of him is still a helpless, scared child in need of guidance and affection. I clearly recall the screaming baby at King's Cross, my bizzare afterlife experience. Even then, with a soul so mutilated and withered, a part of him was newborn, full of fear and desperation. I will not forget that.

* * *

In the corridor, I accidently trip on a hurried Minnie. Silly me, lost again in an ocean of memories. She is pushed behind by the force of my fall, her books scattering on the floor, and her lips part in shock and concern behind her glasses.

"Are you alright, Mr Potter?" she says, her cheeks flushed with embarassment. She then kneels to gather some of the books that I caused her to drop. I get up and hand her over the tomes that had fallen my way, smiling. She is a very charming, bright little thing, and I wouldn't want her to feel uncomfortable about this, because really it's not her fault at all. It's my head that was in the clouds.

"Don't worry, I am fine. I guess I am very absent-minded lately, huh?" I speak out in a warm, friendly manner, and she beams at me. Sometimes I really do feel like it is a young Hermione there, in front of me, and I want to hug her and tell her how much I miss her. My eyes randomly fall on one of her books. "Roman blood bonds and rituals" it says, and suddenly I have a brilliant idea. If I don't have Hermione to do some research for me I could very possibly...

"Hey, miss McGonagall, I was wondering... These classes must be horribly dull for you. I bet you must be longing for a bit of an academic challenge. I know how bright you are," I begin quite playfully, and her eyes immediately start shining and my words. She nods. I know that other teachers have also been assigning extra work just for her, so she doesn't look at all surprised by my suggestion.

"If you want, I can set a truly interesting little side project for you. I have been trying to study a strange magical occurance, but see, I am more of a practical wizard. My spellwork is amazing, and I have a fantastic armory of incantations, but I will admit my skill with books is... Well, I don't have any skill with them whatsoever," I admit goofily, and she beams at me, affirming indeed that she is dying for an interesting pet project.

"It is the ancient and mostly forgotten ritual of signature-blending that I am reseraching on, and most importantly its cross-generational effects. If you want, you can try and help me by conducting some research yourself. I am sure it will be very interesting and great fun for you, and I will make sure I tell your other teachers what an eager learner you are," I conclude.

"You don't need to tell other teachers anything, Sir. I am more than eager to do this just for the fun of it," she replies a little vexed, and I feel a little guilty for having tried to indirectly bribe someone as deeply ethical as Minerva. Nonetheless, I am very happy to hear her smooth acceptance of my task, and I mutter something complimentary about her brains. Just as Hermione would, she glows with pride, and I am certain she will try her best to impress me with this research project. She is endearing, really, and I feel a guilty pleasure in taking advantage of the future Minerva McGonagall, stern lioness and war-mistress extraordinaire.

I walk away whistling something about the bright side of life.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Be really glad I don't own Harry Potter or any of his friends and foes. If I did, there would probably be a Snape/Hermione/McGonagall threesome scene somewhere. Yum.

A/N: Summer in the center of Athens is a hellish experience. I wish I had the money to grant myself a holiday, but I barely have enough to get by and feed my dogs. If any loving and giving person here is willing to send me an air-conditioner via express mail, I will be very grateful. Heh.

To Nightmares: I am sorry to hear that you were so profoundly disturbed by the darkest chapters of my story. I did rate the story M for a reason, but I guess many M stories are rated that way only because of sexual scenes, so that was not exactly a very precise warning. On chapter 10 though I do warn about cannibalims, gangrene and general nastiness, but then again by then it is probably too let for someone to stop reading. I am not sure what to do about this. I will think about it. Thanks for liking the story despite all the horror.

To Barranca: Well, he might be Gryffindor, but he is also part Slytherin, even in canon, so I guess that some innocent little bit of friendly manipulation is not that bad. And anyway, he does feel guilty about it, which is a very Gryffindor emotion. A real Slytherin would probably inwardly indulge himself in continuous "Bwahahahahahha"s. Neh? ;)

To Marching Clocks, allasvitkona: Yes, it is fairly obvious that Riddle does admire Harry and even occasionally feels intimidated by him. This is why, although according to canon he has no scrupules in seducing people in both sexual (Hepzibah Smith anyone?) and non-sexual manners (because to be honest, what he did to Slughorn in order to find out about Horcruxes -was- seduction, even though it was not the sexual kind), he hesitates now. He uses his natural charm to manipulate the ones he scorns and considers inferior, and that's not quite the sort of relationship he has with Potter.

On another note: Thank you all for leaving reviews, favorite-ing me, adding this story to C2s and other such nice things. Don't forget that I am a human being, and that even a small gesture can make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

WARNINGS: Grindledore, mild SLASH

* * *

Chapter 20

Riddle's PoV

It is Friday, and although I deeply despise Fridays for their dullness and general lack of energy, the thought that in exactly one week from now the winter break will commence brings a knowing little smirk to my lips. What a fantastic, unique opportunity to gain new knowledge and power this will be; being able to both meet Gellert Grindelwald and spend additional time under the tutelage of the green man. Already, Potter has shown me a truth that I had been pitifully blind to beforehand. That I will not become the greatest wizard alive simply by mastering the most obscure Dark curses I can discover, but that instead I need to master both Dark and Light magic alike, indiscriminately, for there is nothing even remotely laughable about a powerful Light spell.

This revelation occurs to me the moment Potter first casts his "_Expecto Ager Curam_" charm, for it is then that I realise why I am so undeniably drawn to this wizard's power. It is because he is not incomplete, partial; he is not a Dark Lord or a Light Lord, but instead someone who can both use Parseltongue and cast a Patronus, who can both create a field of affection and a landscape of destruction. He is whole. And it is because of his multifarious rather than narrowly specialized magicks that, in my mind, he is superior to both Albus and Gellert, and perhaps the most admirable wizard alive.

Despite this, however, I must not allow myself to experience such disgusting feelings of reverence towards this man, for they are a clear sign of weakness, and they bring apathy and servitude. Instead, I let my esteem fuel my envy, my ambition, my drive, and I promise myself that soon there will be a moment when the green man will have nothing more to teach me, no areas is which he will surpass me.

And it is with some fondness that I realise that I have finally found someone that can truly help me achieve improvement of myself, someone that I will one day be proud to call my equal. Being able to feel respect is refreshing.

* * *

As I enter the Divination classroom, a random but rather brilliant idea comes to mind, and I concentrate in order to recall word by word the prophecy that the green man revealed to have been made about us in his future. As soon as the noisy little kids settle down and professor Agrumela Trelawny takes her position, I lift my hand. To be honest, although I first believed this woman to be an absolute, pitiful hoax, I came, in time, to realise that there is indeed Seer blood in her famile, even though it gets weaker with every passing generation.

"Yes. Tom, sweetheart. What would you like to ask?" she mumbles distractedly as she polishes her crystal globe, while trying to prevent her golden locks from falling in front of her face. I could have sworn that she did not once lift her glassy eyes from the globe and that she therefore could not have seen me raise my hand, but I have sworn to myself I will not try to apply rational explanations on this woman, for I will most certainly go mad.

"While I was reading through some ancient wizarding history, I came across a fragment of a very peculiar prophecy, and I was curious as to how such a prophecy could possibly be interpreted. Possibly reffering to two wizarding rivals, it said '_and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives',_" I suggest employing my usual sweet, knowledge-hungry voice, and give her a small, shy smile. She lifts her head, and offers me a long, piercing glare with her void, hazel eyes; a glare that is actually very unlike her usual absent-minded, humorous personality.

"It is strange that you should come across a prophecy that is yet to be made," she replies slowly and in a low voice.

I unwillingly draw a sharp albeit silent breath, and feel myself shivering just a bit, for I have clearly underestimated Agrumela's knowledge of the future, and her cunning. Thankfully, none of my stupid classmates pay any attention to her strange words, for these foolish little morons believe her to be little more than a crazy old hag. I am nonetheless relieved when her thin lips eventually form into a smile, despite the actual threatening air the said smile exudes.

"Well, you are my student, and thus it is my responsability as a teacher to answer your questions the best I can. Although prophecy deciphering is actually in the seventh year curicculum, dear boy," she began, and her usually unfocused, endlessly wandering eyes are steadily focused on me, glinting. Feeling that she is about to enclose very useful information to me, I inwardly lick my lips in anticipation.

"You see, young Riddle, the most common mistake made when common people make their attempts at interpreting a prophecy is forgetting that usually, prophecies are covered by many layers of metaphors. Your... case, or at least the fragment of it you chose to present to me, contains many mentions of life and death. But, dear little snake, what are life and death?" she whispers hoarsely, and I feel myself hanging from her thin lips, my heart beating fast. The way she stresses this case to be "mine" clearly shows me that she understands clearly who is the subject of this prophecy, and that alone impresses me greatly.

"I am Agrumela Trelawny, and I am a Seer. If I were to lose my ability to see the future, Agrumela the Seer would die, and Agrumela the witch would be born. Death is only the death of today. Death is a transition. Death is a change; every change. Life, on the other hand, simply symbolises a condition, a state of being. Life is the moment of stability between deaths. Do you understand?" she asks me. I nod, for I truly do comprehend her puzzling, confusing words, and I can actually make sense out of her skewed musings.

"Dying at the hand of another... The rotting of the body is perhaps one of the most drastic changes one can undergo, but it not necesserily the one meant in this context. The hand is the influence, the craft, the power that brings the change. The hands pulls one into new directions, and thus kills only to give birth to a different, changed soul," she slowly explains, pausing dramatically every now and then, and by now the bored students have begun talking with one another about Quidditch, sex and other such infinitely inferior subjects. They completely oblivious to the powerful magic wrapped around Trelawny's mystical words, and I am honestly glad about it.

"Living is stability. Living is repetition, and continuity. When one cannot live, it signifies that one cannot carry on, one's path can not go any further. One has to thus change their condition. In this case we have here, the path is blocked by the existence of another individual's path. This prophecy, my dear boy, is about two paths that are mutually exclusive. And if no one changes their state of being, one lifeline will have to draw to a close during the inevitable crash. Do you see, now, the meaning?" she concludes, and I feel myself glowing in excitement and dawning understanding.

"So, professor, if I were to interpret this part of this... ancient, obscure prophecy as _'There are two individuals out of whom one must inevitably change under the influence of the other, for their current states of being, their paths, are incompatible, and therefore unless they change, they will inevitably crash, which will lead to the violent termination of one of these two paths_.', I will not be far from the truth, will I?" I offer softly but without much hesitation. Agrumela pins her unnaturally large irises on me with fondness and esteem, and slowly her lips begin to form a large, eerie grin.

"Not far from the truth at all, Tom, my boy," she replies, appreciating my intellect, and as soon as the words leave her mouth, a sense of overwhleming knowledge floods into me triumphantly.

Potter and I have interwined, bonded fates, due to he residual signature-blending. But Voldemort the Dark Lord and Harry Potter the Light-side strategist are profoundly incompatible, and cannot but battle until only one remains standing. A conflict is thus created within the nature of our destiny. A paradox. To rectify this, the green man is sent back into the timeline, to steer my path away from crashing violently into his.

So now I must either change him, or he must change me. Perhaps even both.

And perhaps both are already happening, I realise, the exquisite, complex wokrings of fate made clear before my awe-struck eyes. It all makes sense.

I never thought that a prophecy could be so enlightning, so accurate, so simple, so beautiful; a means to steal a glimpse of the great, inevitable wheel of destiny.

* * *

Dumbledore's PoV

Today I have no visits from Harry or Dippet, no Mugwump or Wizengamot affairs that call my attention, no evening classes. Additionally, Fawkes is very busy ripping apart that little rabbit I bought for him, and thus I feel rather lonely. Having completed my Chimaira teeth related paper, I do not even have a new research project to plunge into. Therefore, I decide to take my pensieve out of the cupboard. I stare at it affectionately, for in there are forever trapped the last traces of Ariana's smile and Gellert's shining youth. I dive.

**_And I am once again a young, delicate boy with long auburn hair, aqua eyes behind thin, somewhat skewed glasses and a pair of absurdly red lips. Before me is Gellert, his dark blue eyes like an angry ocean, his golden locks shining in the evening sun. We are sitting beneath a large tree, holding hands like idiots, and yet we are probably the most brilliant young wizards of our generation. My hand looks awfully pallid and thin within his perfect, slighly tanned fingers. It is a couple of hours before the night, and the sun's rays are already tinged with red, caressing his beautiful skin and turning it to a surface of smooth bronze. His lips are rather full and pink, and I am drawn to them as if they are the center of the world, the Philosopher's stone, the Elder wand, Merlin's tomb._**

**_He smiles at me, and oh dear Hecate he really looks just like an angel, if not for his mischievous, restless eyes, tumultuous like the storm. I lean in and kiss him, intoxicated by his intellect, his power, his beauty, his charisma and, of course, his sexy German accent. He kisses me back passionately, and I swear my heart is under a Confundus spell._**

**_"Al. You are vonderful," he mutters seductively into my ear. "Zese eyes of yours are ze most potent charm is ze vorld. And zis red mouth... Your hair, like ze tail of a phoenix..." he murmurs thickly, and his hands are sliding underneath my robes._**

**_"One day I will get myself a phoenix as a familiar. I will call him Fawkes," I note and move my glasses up my nose, and although it is a really unrelated comment spoken in a rather factual manner, it seems to arouse Gellert even more, for he practically jumps onto me, pinning me to the grass. His eyes are burning darkly, with unprecedented intensity. His body, slender but still wider than my own, feels hard and strong. I pluck a daisy and place it behind his ear, and he starts laughing._**

**_"You silly man. So brilliant, so poverful, so vell-read but so, so innocent," he growls and our lips meet once again. He tastes better than lemon drops, better than chocolate frogs, better than fudge. I am grinning widely during our kiss, mingling my fingers into his curly coiff._**

**_"You call me innocent when it is you the little old ladies mistake for a cherub at the greengrocer's?" I breathlessly tease between kisses and he grunts as a response._**

**_"Zese little old ladies vill not know vat hit zem ven I take over ze vorld," he then adds. My white shirt is slowly unbuttoned, revealing a lithe, pale landscape of scarless skin. He lowers his head onto my chest, and that sensual humid sensation must certainly be his tongue. This is when my heart really begins to beat hard, for as much as we have kissed and fondled before, we have never actually had penetrative sex thus far. Mostly because we prefer planning out our conquest of the wizarding societies worldwide._**

**_"The way this is heading, I might soon lose my ability to hug unicorns," I exclaim in mock exasperation, and I hear Gellert chuckle at my horrible virginity joke, his head approaching my trousers dangerously._**

**_"Yes, you probably vill," he replies eventually, looking up to me with eyes full of unrestrained desire. And oh Merlin, I am so madly in love with him, in spite of all his arrogance, his ambition and his uncorrigible need to dominate. He takes his own scarlet shirt off, but not before my cheeks begin to immitate the garment's colour._**

**_"Vell, vell. You are blushing," he points out looking thoroughly amused as he seductively begins to unbutton his trousers._**

**_"Yes. How quaint, huh?" I say, dizzy at the sight of his unearthly beauty._**

**_"Vat is 'qvaint'?"_**

**_"Nevermind"_**

I remove my mind from the pensieve, my face adorned with a bittersweet smile.

We were very young once. Well, we are still young enough, I guess. We can still make up for all the wasted years. I sit again behind my office, and Fawkes, who has in the meanwhile taken care of that rabbit, comes to me chirping gratefully for the treat. Suddenly, I feel terribly inspired, and I wave my wand around to place an Albinoni record into the gramophone while munching on some cupcake I discovered lying behind a tome of "Burial magicks of the Incan mages".

I know exactly what my next paper should be on. I choose an extravaggant purple plume-quill, and with bright blue ink I write down the title on a brand new piece of parchment.

_Properties of residual magic caused by physical contact with unicorns_

* * *

Potter's PoV

Walburga Black walks into the classroom, and the moment I see her haughty, overconfident face I immediately regret, or at least almost regret, having given her a detention. And yet, I am also glad I did, for someone has to put this minx back to her place. Having first met her as the bipolar, hysterical portrait at Grimmauld place 12, I am not liking her any better as a conceited fifth year student with a huge superiority complex. I can actually barely believe that this witch would have given birth to someone as adorable as Sirius.

She has earned this detention for calling a Ravenclaw student a "muddy excuse of a wizarding being with as much genetic quality as a dead turtle". And although her insults are rather more interesting than these employed by your average Slytherin, I really had to intervene. To be honest, Walburga does have a few admirable qualities, and I can understand why she would be amonst the few students that Riddle can stand for more than a few minutes. After all, she is clever, cultivated and her will is very strong. Of course, she is also more of a snob than both Lucius and Narcissa put together, she shrieks a lot, she uses dark curses in the corridors and openly supports the Nazi party's idea of purging the muggle gene pool, suggesting something similar should be done with wizards.

If that is best Slytherin has to offer, no wonder Riddle is craving some quality company, because Walburga is, in all the sense of the word, a bitch.

Therefore today, to me immense pleasure, she will be transfiguring one thousand needles into matches.

"Good afternoon, _assistant_ professor Potter," she offers flatly, her black eyes hateful. She is perhaps the only one to still call me that, and I won't say it doesn't annoy me. And yet, I am far beyond caring, for I have seen people I dearly loved dying slow, painful deaths. And I have seen battlefields covered in blood, corpses rotting under the midday sun and curses raining down upon women and children. I can not actually manage to attach any importance to the subtle insult behind a silly little witch's greeting.

"Good afternoon, miss Black. There are one thousand and four needles back there for you. I want them all to be matches by the end of of our detention. Any questions?" I swiftly reply, smiling warmly at her just to annoy her. Her jaw clenches, and I can see her wand warm twitch a bit, but she says nothing. She simply heads towards the needles and starts transfiguring. I sit behind my desk, reading a book and casting her only the occasional glance, to make sure she is carrying on with her unpleasant activity.

Eventually she gets the job done, and she turns around to me, staring with expectation and impatience. I dismiss her with a rather rude gesture, and once again there are daggers of hatred comming out of her coal coloured eyes. She leaves, her nose still somewhere high into the air.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

I walk into the common room, and immediately I notice a few young worms gathered around a seemingly angry, ranting Walburga. I naturally come closer to find out what all the horrible ruckus is about, the other students respectfully opening their circle for me to pass. Walburga, who is a rather powerful and even somewhat intelligent witch wasting her talents on petty little fights and her obsession with genetic purity, seems to be going on about a detention she received from Potter. I fight back a very amused smile from creeping into my face, and instead I offer her a look of sympathy.

"Whatever did he give you a detention for, Walga?" I ask, using the abbreviated version of her name just because I enjoy the fact that although she does not like it, she dares not tell me not to use it.

"For revealing to that pathetic little bookworm, Eleonora Wells, what a worthless mudblood she really is. Can you believe that? I got punsihed for telling the truth," she replies, and she looks genuinely outraged; which I can understand since she comes from a very well-respected and very influential wizarding family and therefore most teachers do not have the courage to punish her for her rash actions. Of course, Potter has nothing to fear, because he has had to fight most members of the Black family more than once in his future, according to his tales.

"Perhaps he was simply trying to teach you a valuable lesson on discretion, Walga dearest. You know I agree with you on Eleonora's complete uselessness as a human being, but you do need to be more subtle with your attacks," I suggest in a slightly critical tone, causing her to look rather astonished, and to gape in a very uncomely way. The other Slytherins, being the cowardly little idiots they are, just fidget uncomfortably at my intentionally vexing remark.

"Perhaps," she replies so coldly that I fear she might spit a few icicles at me, and although I know that she generally holds great esteem for me, she currently looks as if there is a Cruciatus on the tip of her tongue. "Or perhaps you have simply taken some sort of interest in assistant professor Potter, and you are defending his actions," she venomously adds.

I can think a hundred thousand exquisite ways to shut her up and tastefully deny her accusation, but it occurs to me that I can actually irritate her more by not denying it at all.

"So what? He is a handsome, powerful, young pureblood. Actually, the fact he does not approve of your verbally barbaric displays of dislike, and seems rather fond of subtlety instead makes me respect him even more," I offer and I lock my eyes into hers, defiantly, my lips breaking into an arrogant smirk. It is her who lowers her gaze first, unable to bear the empty frigidity of my glare, and I know that for the time being, I have come victorious out of this little display of a power-play. With an elegant movement I push a strand of black hair behind, and then I turn around walk quietly towards my room.

I am sure this little conflict will have rather entertaining consequences.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: Fortunately Harry Potter and his crew are owned by the very lovely and talented Mrs. Rowling. Thank god, because if they were Anne Rice's we'd probably not be allowed to write about them. *gasp*

A/N: Ok, I am quite disappointed with the response to my latest chapter. Was it that bad? I got the smallest amount of reviews I have EVER gotten for any chapter before, and I don't understand why. I re-read it, but found it to be acceptable, if not rather decent. Hell, the Grindledore scene was especially made for the people who complain about the horror scenes and the hateful rantings; I even incorporated some fluff for you guys!

Whatever, I shouldn't be complaining, since I have quite a few kind and faithful readers. Like NougatEvolution, Barranca, endlessvamp, Rubedo Jr etc. These are the people I actually write for. But it wouldn't be bad if the rest of you could also bring yourselves to write a teenie-weenie string biki.. I mean REVIEW.

A small note on the chapter itself: the information on the Catoblepas and the medieval beliefs on stags and snakes are both taken from various online sources. Mostly Wikipedia, Monstropedia, and the Medieval Bestiary. I am not actually making any of it up, believe it or not. Rowling must have put a lot of thought behind the choice of James Potter being a stag.

* * *

Chapter 21

Riddle's PoV

Saturdays mean too much spare time in the hands of too many disgusting little children, allowing them to produce too much auditory pollution; and thus it it me to decides to seek out Potter this time. I approach him as he leaves the Great Hall, in a manner rather similar to the one he come to me a week ago, and I propose a walk to the lake, and perhaps some experimenting on the newly discovered similarities between our magical cores. The green man seems rather pleased with my initiative, and he slowly smiles at me, suggesting we could begin immediately unless I have something more interesting to do, while he obviously knows I don't.

Although quite a few small, glimmering snowflakes are falling around us, the temperature is not actually low enough to be unpleasant, I note. Potter appears to be enjoying the snow, for a rather immature, goofy smile is plastered on his face, which looks really out of place on his hardened, masculine visage. He certainly is a wizard full of contradictions, but that is not necesserily a bad thing, since it is the very quality that makes him so delightfully unique compared to all these woefully simple, _predictable _wizards around us.

Close to the Great Lake we stuble across a large fallen log, and he stares at it very cheerfully, as if it is exactly what he had been looking for, before wandlessly transfiguring it into a wooden bench with appaling ease. The newly transformed piece of furniture even has cute little carvings on it, I observe while trying to supress a wave of exasperated envy. Potter sits down gently, and for a moment his eyes wander lost in thought, his face suddenly older, wiser, before he eventually looks up at me with a friendly, inviting grin curving his lips. I sit down next to him, feeling anxious about the physical proximity and slightly uncomfortable by the strange, warm silence.

"Well, since we have already deduced that tapping into each other's magical reserves seems to work, we could now try casting the same spell simultaneously, to produce an amplification effect. How does that sound?" he finally says, which is pretty much what I would have suggested myself and I therefore nod in a rather excited and eager way, which I immediately regret, for eagerness is not very flattering.

"Any idea for the spell?" he adds, and since I am certain that he has many ideas himself I wonder why he is offering me this choice; perhaps he is going to draw conclusions from it.

"The Patronus charm, maybe. It is quite easy to measure its power, since it is direclt related to its size and density, and it is also a spell that can generally not be produced jointly," I reply, gazing directly into his eyes, expecting to find him pleased with my suggestion. I am fairly disappointed though, for he does not look particularly glad; he simply appears calm and accepts my choice rather passively. It occurs to me that although he is indeed a Gryffindor, this does not necessarilly mean that his emotions are to be written all over his features, for perhaps he wishes to keep his conclusions to himself for now.

It only takes a couple of seconds for me to realise why Potter seems to be slightly concerned and not overly joyous about the incantation of my choice, for it is then that I recall a significant passage from the book "The Medieval bestiary". **_The stag is the enemy of the snake. When the stag discovers a snake, it spits water into the hole where the snake hides, draws the snake out with its breath, and tramples it to death. If the stag is ill or old, it draws the snake out of hiding and swallows it. The stag then finds water and drinks large amounts of it to overcome the poison, and is renewed. When the stag is renewed it sheds its horns. Some say that the stag cures its ills by eating crabs it finds in the water._**

Our Patronus creatures are natural enemies then, which points to the possibility of a rather disastrous result.

Lets see how this will turn out.

* * *

"At my signal?" the green man suddenly asks, and once again a small smile appears on his rugged face.

"Certainly."

Thus, at his signal, our voices mingle as we call forth our protectors, made out of our most cherished memories of joy, and silver glow surrounds us. Simulteneously, threads of shimmering light come out of our respective wands, joining a few feet away from us and knitting into a blurry form. I grit my teeth in an effort to sustain the magical transfer from our cores to the newborn mass of light, and I can see that even the powerful wizard next to me appears to be experiencing some difficulty. Yet, we manage to keep the threads intact, and the form becomes increasingly solid and sharp, its contour smooth and precise, until the casting process is finally complete.

I stare disbelievingly at the Patronus standing before us.

"Is this a... Catoblepas?" I whisper in unavoidable astonishment. "I thought it was impossible for a Patronus to be a Magical Beast."

"It looks like a Catoblepas to me, too. Or at least a variant of it, for its features are rather more stag-like that oxen. A magical hybrid of our respective Patronuses, apparently," he notes, and although the tone of his voice is collected and steady, it is still obvious that is quite shocked by this outcome himself. Which is normal, because I am sure I have never come across any record of a magical creature Patronus before, and probably neither has he.

The large silver beast approaches us, and I grab this opportunity to take a closer look at its magnificent, radiant form, which stands as tall as my torso. The shape of its body indeed brings a stag to mind, somehow, but it is significantly more muscled and sturdy, much like a bull actually, while it is also covered in wide, shiny scales. I search inside my mental library for an entry on the Catoblepas, and find **_"The catoblepas (from the Greek (katablepw) "to look downwards") is a legendary creature from Ethiopia, described first by Pliny the Elder and later by Claudius Aelianus. It is said to have the body of a buffalo and the head of a hog. Its back has reptilian scales that protect the beast, and its head is always pointing downwards. Its stare or breath could either turn people into stone, or kill them"._**

So Potter is, unsurprisingly, right; this creature is not exactly a Catoblepas, for its anatomy does have the slender refinement of a stag's physique, and its head does not really remind me of a hog. It actually does not remind me of anything I have ever seen before, except from when it eventually opens its mouth, allowing me to identify a clearly reptilian, forked tongue. It stares at me right in the eye with its sharp slit pupils, and suddenly I am at the verge of panic, seeing as I am not used to being faced with magic that I do not already know everything about through my various readings. Are these... the eyes of a Basilisk?

"Come here, you splendid beast," I hear Potter's somewhat breathless but also confident and affectionate voice, and the Catoblepas immediately turns its attention to the green man, who actually comes forth and extends an arm towards it. The Patronus seems to be rather delighted with that gesture, because something akin to a smile appears on its terrifying face, and it rubs its head on Potter's hand fondly. Well, I can not allow someone to prove me a coward, I think to myself, so I also approach the beast, and rather hesitantly at first, I start caressing its back. I am a little surprised by just how dense and material its body feels, but I relax when I feel the warmth and happiness it emmits. It is a Patronus, after all.

* * *

When the Catoblepas has been spoiled sick with Potter's inceasingly enthusiastic petting, his weirdly affectionate murmuring and my rather reluctant hand trailing down its strong back, I turn my head to Potter.

"Perhaps we should try not casting _finite inctantem_ simultaneously," I offer in a curious tone, my mind calculating what could possibly happen in that case. The wizard does not look quite thrilled about this idea, and I gather he must fear unexpected complications it could possibly bring, but he nonetheless agrees.

"_Finite incantem_" I consequently cast, feeling a little nervous myself, but doing my best to look unconcerned and self-confident, for appearances are only too important in this society. The beast immediately begins to shine, so intensely that I have to bring my arm in front of my eyes, and its frame seems to be undergoing some sort of alteration. When the unpleasant radiation cools down and I open my eyes once more, I come face to face with a regal stag Patronus. Potter's Patronus.

"Interesting." I mutter, and judging from his impressed green eyes, examining the remaining Patronus, Potter must feel the same.

"This does constitute definite proof that the Catoblepas Patronus charm is truly an actual physical and magical hybrid between our separate Patronuses." he deduces, and of course I have come to the same conclusion myself. He casts off his charm, and silver glow fades completely, leaving only falling snowflakes behind.

"Something is bothering me though. If the combination of any two animal Patronuses produced a corresponding magical beast Patronus, wouldn't that fact have been discovered before? We are after all not the first pair of wizards with blended signatures," I question out loud, partly to myself, and frown in thought.

"It is perhaps because the snake and stag are thought to be natural enemies, with no common ground whatsoever. This could mean that they are actually complimentary in their magic. This could mean that their combined magical cores would be able to produce a creature with a full magical spectrum, a Magical Beast that is," he muses, and I am a little surprised by his very clever remark, for although I knew him to be an immensely powerful wizard, I was not certain of his academic ability.

"Fair point. I will definitely look into it," I agree, offering him a very appreciative smirk and nailing my eyes into his with intensity. And although my intention is to cause some sort of reaction in him, it is actually my own heart that skips a beat at the impassioned eye contact. Perhaps I am being unwise in triggering a game that I am not even remotely certain I can handle, let alone win.

But if I am not allowed to be unwise at thirteen, then when?

* * *

Potter's PoV

Back to my rooms, I pull a few tomes out of my small library, most of which is actually made up of the books that Albus did not manage to fit into his own quarters. I find quite a few references on the Catoblepas, most of them surprisingly muggle.

**_Pliny (Natural History, 8.77) describes it as a mid-sized creature, sluggish, with a heavy head and a face always turned to the ground. He thinks its gaze, like that of the basilisk, was lethal, making the heaviness of its head quite fortunate. _**

**_Claudius Aelianus (On the Nature of Animals, 7.6) provides a fuller description: the creature is a mid-sized herbivore, about the size of a bull, with a heavy mane, narrow, bloodshot eyes, scaly backs and shaggy eyebrows. The head is so heavy that the beast could only look down. In his description, the animal's gaze was not lethal, but its breath was poison, since it ate only poisonous vegetation._**

I try to understand what that might mean about me and Riddle, about our magic and its union. I don't. What is the meaning of this creature? What is the meaning of it representing our united magical cores? A creature resembling a fusion between our animal representatives, but different. A creature carrying the eyes of a Basilisk, non-lethal only because it is simply a Patronus. A creature with a head too large for its own good. A beast with a forked tongue and bloodshot eyes. A monster.

I shiver.

And yes, I do not manage to concentrate on this issue. In my head, Riddle's behaviour is in a more urgent need of interpretation than the form of our joint Patronus. Why the heated stares, why the red glint in his eyes? They could be a sign of hidden hatred, or maybe residual anger towards me. Perhaps a form of resentful admiration and the desire to read my intentions, to overpower me. Tom Riddle is, above all, a boy that craves power and knowledge, so maybe it is this thirst that I saw in his eyes. Or is it something else entirely?

The more I try to solve the puzzle of Riddle's psyche, the more I sink into an ocean of questions and doubt. I never did think that just by exposing his trauma, and by later bringing him face to face with the snippets of joy and affection he holds by means of Light magic I would suddenly turn him into a happy, peaceful kid. But I did not think I would lose myself so desperately in the maze of his mind. I feel like a twisted, demented version of the Triwizarding Tournment, a battlefield of tests and tasks awaits me behind his heavenly physique.

How complex, how skewed his young soul is.

And then the meaning of the Catoblepas is made obvious to me. The beast that is a killer by nature, whose eyes are like the Basilisk and whose tongue is forked, an evident symbol of lies and manipulation. And yet, it is made harmless by its own nature, for its head is forced to hang low, in silent contenmplation. Its giant murderous head, holding a terrific, exquisite mind cannot be supported by its slender, lithe frame. That is who Tom and I are.

Together, we make a monster that is certainly capable of murder and deceit; only it is unable to do so, for its own nature is holding it back. Just like I am hoding Riddle back from unleashing his murderous intentions upon the world. Just like I am helping him contemplate and hang his head low for now, muse upon his own desire to destroy. And his form is too young, too beautiful to be holding such a heavy, twisted mind, and I here to make sure that in the end his youth and innocence manage to keep his killer instinct under control. But the Catoblepas is a creature that suffers from eternal torment, and pain, from its abnormally heavy head. It cannot lead a carefree existence. So this cannot be the final form of our joint Patronus, which makes sense, since Patronuses do change as people mature. The Catoblepas is simply a transition, a representation of inner struggle and conflict.

Such an elegant, symbolic interpretation. Hermione would be proud of me.

* * *

Following a sudden and fairly unreasonable urge, I leave my room and head towards the Slytherin dungeons. Standing before the common room, I knock politely under the snobby gaze of the dungeon's portraits.

"Who is it?" I hear an elegant but disinterested voice that I easily identify as Abraxas Malfoy.

"It's Harry Potter. Please let Tom Riddle know I wish to speak with him," I say in a friendly, warm manner. A few moments later, the door swings open and Riddle, looking a little surprised at my visit, comes out. We take a few steps away from the room entrance, careful not to be overheard. I lean towards him in a conspiratory way, smirking, but I don't say anything.

"What is it then?" he finally asks, a little annoyed at my silent grin. He looks perplexed.

"I think we should jointly apparate to Diagon Alley, and buy ourselves ice-cream. From right here," I carefully respond, using a tone of voice with which I could have very possibly been suggesting a robbery attempt on Gringotts. Riddle's eyes widen and he glares at me incredulously.

"What?" he mutters and squints his eyes in absolute mistrust of my very innocent suggestion. "Why?" he adds.

"You are not even fourteen yet. And you need a -reason- to eat ice-cream? I don't need one, and I am twenty-five," I reply in discreet mock exasperation. He raises an eyebrow at the mention of my age. I guess sometimes I look older. All of us, Ron, Gunny, 'Mione... all who went through the war did. The war added new wrinkles to our young faces.

"I will need a more convincing argument. I do have more constructive things to do with my time, you know," he spits back, but in his haughty tone I can detect playfulness. Merlin, he is being humorous without being spitefully sarcastic. Baby steps.

"Really now? Such as listening to Slytherin gossip and studying subjects you probably know more about than your teachers do, right?" I observe with a somewhat smug smile. I offer him my hand.

Initially he doesn't do anything. His eyes are still a little cool, but not actually cold. Suddenly, his composed, elegant face breaks into a strange smile, and he hesitantly places his fingers on my palm.

*pop*


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: Harry Potter beongs to Tom Riddle. Who belongs to Harry Potter. There's also the part about them being fictional characters and therefore property of their creator, JK Rowling, but it's not very important really. The first part is all you need to know.

A/N: Ah! The reviewers are back! Thank you. And did I mention, THANK YOU? I guess that perhaps what some of you have been suggesting is true. The whole business about how's the summer holidays and people are going to various places and leaving their PCs behind. Oh well. Too bad, because I won't wait until September to write this story down.

Sorry for the delay concerning this chapter, I was busy writing a very twisted little femslash one-shot. Something about Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione Granger, sex, violence and a Stockholm Syndrome. Some of you, the ones that actually enjoy the squicky parts of this story, could try reading that one too.

To Barranca: As usual, your observations are spot on. It's like you are inside my mind. Maybe you are. I am sure who that little voice in there belongs to.

To NougatEvolution: Harry/Mr Crabbe/Mrs Crabbe... The concept alone is a little nauseating, but now I have a very strange plot bunny in the back of my head. Please make it go away mommy.

To Twilight's Aura and all others who commented on the joint Patronus: I always thought the Patronus charm to be an awesome little invention on Rowling's part. It's like an external representation of the purest part of one's soul. I simply -had- to take advantage of that concept.

To Rubedo Jr and Pouf: You guys are the bestest ever. I simply love your comments. They are quirky, insightful and critical when they must be. I blush when I read them.

To TeiraanCHAN : I was really touched by the fact you actually admitted you rarely ever review, and decided to change that just because I was so upset last time. Amazing gesture.

**Warnings**: The first part of the chapter is EXCEEDINGLY** silly**. The second one is quite dark, and a bit slashy. Both are slightly disturbing, in their own way.

* * *

Chapter 22

Potter's PoV

We apparate in Diagon Alley, where I have recently discovered that Fortescue's not only exists, but is also owned by an actual Fortescue. Frederick Fortescue, this time, not Florian. What's with all the "F"? Riddle seems fairly happy to have apparated out of Hogwarts, as there is a faint smile on his face as he swiftly removes his fingers from my hand. If there is a Gryffindor trait in him, it has to be the joy he takes in breaking the rules without anyone knowing. I throw a warm grin towards him, but he naturally doesn't reciprocate; instead, he archs an eyebrow in blasé amusement.

Even as we walk to Fortescue's, I am not actually certain that following my rather childish impulse was indeed the right thing to do, but there is no use calculating possibilities over spilt milk. The chubby man with the large blond moustache welcomes us cheerfully. I point at a rather isolated table, and Tom Riddle just shrugs and follows me. He still looks quite unsure about this whole escapade, and I bet he is trying to find some hidden meaning in it. Too bad there is none. I decide to let him know, as well, because there us no use in wasting our time with him trying to decipher my behaviour in silent contemplation.

"You are aware that there is no secret message behind going to eat some ice-cream, right?" I whisper in a friendly way, and hand one of the two menu to him. He looks at it strangely, and then snorts.

"Well, apparently everything that in some way involves us tends to be symbolic, so why not ice-cream," he replies casually, and I am pleased to find that he is once more being humourous, which is a pleasant change compared to his usual venom. And yet, with his comment he is indirectly letting me know that he has researched the meaning of the Catoblepas, and has reached his own conclusions concerning it. He truly is a clever young man, I can't help but notice.

* * *

"So, Tom. What is the symbolism behind liking vanilla ice-cream?" I ask in mock seriousness, trying to use my assiant professor face. At first he looks at me as if I just came from another planet, but as some point it eventually occus to him that I am trying to set off some sort of pseudo-scientific conversation. Slowly his rather tense lips break into a knowing grin, and he takes up his menu, examining it with intense concentration written on his face. He mutters a few things under his breath, and feigns mental calculations.

"Well, according to my evidence, choosing vanilla as one's favorite flavour has many implications of varying importance. First of all, vanilla shows simplicity. Perhaps a bold, honest character; a man that does not use manipulation and deceit as his weapons of choice. Vanilla is white, like innocence. Like virginity. It could also signify the desire to recapture one's lost childhood and purity, the need to rid themselves of the burdens of adulthood. Vanilla is fairly asexual. It has a mild, soft flavour; it holds no secrets, no dangers, no desires. It is also mostly feminine in it's nature: soft, sugary, domesticated. It represents the values of devotion, simplicity and incorruptibility. It is a virtuous flavour," Riddle analyses, and I am shocked at how smoothly and naturally he utters the most amazing non-sense.

I also note that he still is very much a child at times, for he is actually eager to play with me. Only the games he likes are of an entirely different kind. This kind.

"I fully agree with you, dear Riddle. And I would like to note that vanilla is the nemesis of chocolate. Chocolate is the face of temptation, or sin. Its deep, bittersweet flavour is meant to evoke excess and the loss of innocence. Chocolate is easy to love, because it provides easy, ready pleasure; it is thus very popular with the plebeian masses. It is also a symbol of the complexity of human relationships, for it initially woos you with its intoxicating aroma, offering you endless sweetness, only to leave a strange, bitter taste in the back of your mouth. I might also go as far as saying that chocolate represents the devil, coming to us in the form of temptation, of guilty pleasure, ready to addict us to his charms," I reply, and I am fairly proud of myself.

I did not know that I had it in me, improvising so skilfully. Riddle is trying hard to hold back his laughter.

"Then there is straciatella, isn't there, professor Harry? Straciatella is a strange hybrid, a ying and yang state of being. Straciatella is innocence soiled by sin. It is love polluted with hatred. It is feminity and masculinity together. The straciatella individual is the multi-faceted one, the owner of the many masks. He is the owner of a wide spectrum of characteristics, ranging from virtues to vices. He is neither divine nor demonic. He is human nature itself, he is inner conflict and contradiction. Straciatella is mankind. Straciatella is us," he observes, his tone considerably grave, and now it's my turn to grit my teeth in an effort to avoid roaring out in laughter.

What a charismatic, fiendish boy; he makes the most unbelievable garbage sound like mystical facts and spiritual truths. It's kind of scary, actually, I note to myself.

_No wonder he was so good at acquiring followers._

"Much can be said about lemon ice-cream, Mr Riddle. Lemon is stingy, it's sharp. Its colour is yellow, a colour related to the sun, to summertime and warmth. And indeed it displays both the fresh, carefree aspect of summer, and its other, more destructive facet. For lemon is not simply a friendly, warm flavour; it holds a hidden edge, the inherently sour nature of the citrus. Just like the summer holds a silent threat, it burns the vegetation and wears out the human body. The lemon person is warm, friendly, but deep inside his core a small destructive urge resides. Beware of the citrus man," I throw back, and in all honesty, I can barely believe I am making all this up on the spot.

Tom Riddle is actually chuckling by now, perhaps at the low, warning tone of my lasts sentences. I've never see him do that before, and indeed it changes him a lot, for he looks nothing like a man that could become Voldemort.

"Coffee ice-cream has a very precise, narrow audiance. Coffe ice-cream is the flavour of maturity. It holds the bitter, disillusioned nature of the coffee bean, and is a symbol of crushed dreams, of routine, of the difficulties of life. But coffee has a different side, too. With coffee comes the refined aroma of wisdom, experience and knowledge. It represents a coming of age, a rite of passage. The coffee individual is the disenchanted one; he is no longer a child, he has left behind his vanilla days. Coffee is he who has accepted the nature of our lives, who can find joy in bitter repetition, who no longer holds on to naive dreams. Coffee is the hardened man," Riddle concludes dramatically, and that's the last I can possibly take while keeping a straight face. I throw my head back in a fit of roaring laughter.

"You lose," Riddle states, grinning widely and hoding back his own obvious urge to laugh. I shake my head, and pick up my menu once more.

"I never said the objective was to avoid laughing out loud," I observe and offer him a smug smile, and I can feel him biting his tongue to hold back some nasty comment. Even though our table is fairly isolated, there are quite a few people watching us, and they are fidgeting rather uncomfortably at our display of enjoyment. The 40's are rather stuck up, I guess. Riddle opens his own menu, and looks through the flavours once more.

"After careful consideration, I will have two balls of pure, corruptive chocolate," he whispers, looking fairly suggestive in a somewhat disturbing way, since he is not even fourteen yet. I try to immitate the expression of a virtuous woman whose morals have just been gravely insulted, and then I make my own choice.

"I'll have a ball of vanilla and a ball of coffee." I conclude after long moments of thought, and I close my menu, my eyes searching for the waiter. Riddle looks a little troubled by my choice.

"You can't do that." he states flatly. "Vanilla and coffee are incompatible. They represent entirely different stages of one's personal evolution." he explains then in mock exasperation. I smile widely and lean in towards him, as if to confess some sort of horrible secret.

"Well, that suits me. I am fairy incompatible with myself. If you leave the two of us alone, it always ends up in tears," I confide, pursing my lips and shaking my head in regret. Tom Riddle stares at me incredulously.

I am really not sure what the point of all this surreal interaction is, to be honest. I just really needed to have some fun, to be honest, for all the violence, and memory and responsibility has been very heavy on my shoulders. I don't know if this will strip me off some measure of respect in Riddle's eyes, but I will not pretend to be some sort of constantly serious, epic warrior just because it would impress him. The lesson of Fred and George is not lost to me: fun is perhaps the most important thing one can have in life. If I can manage to help Riddle discover that, all else will come naturally.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

When we eventually get up, the sky is aready dark and although it is a Saturday, which means that I will not have to put up with endess hours of tedious, meaningless lessons tomorrow, I still do not want to arouse suspicions amongst my peers as far as my extra-curiccular activities go. I feel very conflicted about this little escapade even as it is about to finish, for although I had the rather pleasant opportunity to laugh, I really do not comprehend the motives behind Potter's choice, and things I do not understand make me horribly uncomfortable. Taking advantage of the green man's tendency to be painfully honest, I decide that I might as well ask him about.

"So, what _is_ the actual point of us having ice-cream?" I inquire, and I temporarily stop walking, facing the wizard with curiosity and expectation. He also pauses his steps, and he turns his head towards me, green eyes gleaming strangely in the faint light of night and a small smirk decorating his visage.

"The point of fun is to help you discover that having a good time is quite superior to simply having an awful lot of time," he states, and although he sentence initially sounds awfully absurd, it's meaning does eventually dawn on me. I can feel my lips slightly part in disbelief, for certainly he cannot have said something as excruciatingly silly as I think he did.

"So, if I actually understood you correctly, through the means of ice-cream you are trying to steer me away from my desire to achieve immortality?" I ask him, and I am really unwilling to believe such an utterly odd explanation, for this is, after all, a very wise and powerful wizard.

"Actually, I simply acted on an impulse. I am a Gryffindor, if you recall. But in case you realy require an explanation, that's the best I can offer," he responds, and his smile is cruptic and mysterious. I realise that it would be idiotic of me to expect him to fully reveal his secret thoughts and plans to me, for I am certain there must a masterful scheme that this little adventure must be part of. There is no good reason he would completely disclose him strategy to me; I have to remember that in his eyes I am still the monstrous, ambitious wizard that slaughtered a generous portion of his loved ones.

"I am not sure it's working. I can't tell for sure if I feel less inclined to split my soul through murder and store sickly fragments of it inside various inanimate objects," I observe dryly and perhaps even a little bitterly, disappointed to not have gotten a fully honest answer out of Potter this time.

He doesn't reply, and he simply looks at me with an expression I can't really interpret correctly; the only thing that I can really notice under the pale and distant light of the moon is that he is considerably handsome, which is a rather useless piece of information. He extends his large hand towards me, ready to apparate us back to the castle, and this time I do not hesitate before I place my own pallid hand into his, for I am getting fairly used to joint apparition. It is then that he does something he has never heretofore done; he closes his hand around me, trapping me inside his grip, and I feel the rough surface of my large, appaling scar touching his skin.

I abruptly freeze, and I am sure he notices some sort of unnatural reaction on my part, because he goes not proceed with the apparition process. He opens his hand and without even thinking about it, I pull my own out hastily, even desperately, shivering at the breaking of our contact. I stare intensely at my glamoured scar, slightly panicked somehow, and suddenly I feel a little nauseous, like a trapped animal with claustrophobia.

His bright green eyes observe my behaviour carefully, and I even think there is a measure of concern in them; for his lips are pressed together and looking thin.

"Crap. The scar. I accidentally forced you to ackowledge its existence, therefore triggering residual emotions of fear and despair," he states with sudden sobriety, and it isn't a question really, for he seems fairly confident about his interpretation of what transpired between us just now. As he should be, because he is impressively observant, and seems to have a solid grasp of traumatic psychology; even I have to admit that his statement is quite accurate. I say nothing, knowing that he will correctly interpret my silence as agreement, but I can feel my heartbeat becoming uneven due to my rising stress.

Flashes of hideous, bloodied memories come to my mind, haunting me mercilessly and breaking my composure. There is decay, gangrene, death, and the heavy stench of excrements. There's the rotting skin, drenched in polluted waters, slowly falling off my legs, peeling. There's my vocal chords, raw, destroyed, unable to make a sound while I experience the most devastating horrors. There's the feeling of teeth sinking brutally into my flesh, the realisation that I am being consumed for nutritive purposed, that I am being eaten. There is the hatred, the fear, the loss, all rushing back into me vividly, brutally.

"Give me your hand, Tom," he says gently, after a few minutes of silence, and his eyes fall into mine with honest warmth, which even further unsettles me and causes me to feel threatened. I decide that I should do as he suggests, only my body does not seem to be obeying me properly, for I am in a state of acute dismay, perhaps even on the brink of hysteria. He waits patiently for me, and he does not in any way pressure me, which I decide is considerably wise on is part, for currently a part of me is so alarmed that I exerience the urge to either attack him or flee. My rational consciousness makes a powerful entrance within my inner struggles, and I manage to supress these urges and tame my rising sense of dread.

Eventually I manage to extend my arm towards the green man, who offers me a soft, understanding smile in return, that is really not sufficient to chase my silent terror. He takes my hand and puts both of his around it, my cold, smooth skin feeling terribly lifeless against his large, warm palms. Once again, I experience the horrible sensation of my long cicatrix brushing against him and I immediately try to pull my limb out; he grabs it and looks at me straight in the eyes.

"Calm down, Tom. You are in a corner of Diagon Alley. You are with a powerful wizard that has you under their protection. There is nothing threatening you at all." he very quietly offers, and I feel like snorting at his stupid words because they can offer me no comfort at all; they are meaningless, cliché.

_I am not feeling threatened, you idiot, and I need no one's protection or comfort! I could burn this entire neighborhood down in seconds if I so desired! _

_Stop being such an emetic, patronizing, trite bastard; take your saviour complex elsewhere._

Only I actually realise that somehow I did subconsciously desire to hear them, for slowly a part of me begins to relax, at my own surprise. His eyes are steady and warm, and finally I manage to look back rather unwaveringly myself, feeling my absurd, pathetic panic attack slowly dissipate under his careful gaze.

My hand is still in his grip, and he uses his other hand to bring out his wand, which he then places in the proximity of my wounded limb. Somehow, this action triggers a new anxiety in me, and without actually doing so wittingly, I pull my arm backwards again, only to find it firmly trapped by his strong and thick fingers. For a reason I can cannot possibly manage to explain, I feel my eyes tingling with the rising inclination to shed a few tears, but I hold them back, unwilling to humiliate myself so shamelessly.

"I am going to remove the glamour. You can avert your eyes if you want, but I suggest you try and face your wounds. You have been pulling the strings of half the castle's professor's, Riddle. I'm sure you can manage acknowledge a scar," he lets me know very slowly and carefully, and it occurs to me that although he could have chosen to cast the finite wandlessly, he is going through the tedious process of actually taking out his wand in order to prepare me for this. I stare at him, and then at my hand, a strange wave of apprehension overwhelming and urging me once more to flee; only now I am better prepared for it and manage to push it away, staying firmly immobile.

I nod ever so slightly, in feigned dispassion and nonchalance, in spite of the fact I am actually terrified, to signify that I am as ready for that as I could ever possibily be. The tip of his wand glows, and slowly the dreaded scar comes to surface, horribly disfiguring my elegant hand while I glare at it with equal parts of morbid fascination and misery and sharp panic.

* * *

He still holds my hand lightly into his own, and with very slow and obvious movements, he brings his other hand onto mine, placing a few fingers softly onto the disgusting scar. At the contact, which causes me to experience the sensation of my cicatrix' uneven, rough surface, I shudder and shiver and bristle, but I do my best to avoid convulsing or pulling back. I avert my eyes in repulsion, and try to block out the creepy sense of my scar tissue's surface, but Potter pressed his fingers I little more strongly, forcing me to ackowledge this alien part of my body as a real piece of me, sending me messages through aroused nerve endings. He keeps on doing that simple movement for a moment that feels like an eternity; or at least a twisted, stessful version of it, until I finally approach him and bring myself to actually observe my own cicatrix.

"I suppose it's rather revolting, isn't it?" I eventually utter hesitantly, and there is a vague grief in my voice that I did not intend to express, resonating in the quiet night. For the second time today, I discover myself feeling disgustingly vulnerable, and I hate myself for being so weak and fragile.

"No. It's just a scar. You are so absurdly beautiful that it barely makes a difference anyway," he says in an odd, matter-of-factly way, one that I can not bring myself to argue against.

And yet his calling me _absurdly beautiful_ catches me completely off guard, and I experience a very slight moment of tachycardia, beats rapid and uneven. And then his expression changes, and he looks like he's deeply regretting what he just stated; I feel the urge to say something myself, but my thoughts are confused and tangled, and my mouth is dry. Perhaps he thinks I might misunderstand his factual observation and mistake it for some sort of advance, which I don't, because I am not naïve enough to believe my superficial charm could possibly work on someone as powerful and weather-worn as he is. I finally find my voice.

"To them I might look like anything they want. But we know better, do we not? This scar, and the memories it bears, represent me much more accurately than my pristine face does," I mumble bitterly, and I lower my gaze, suddenly feeling nervous before the time-traveller. How can I be _absurdly beautiful_, me, who fantasizes of torturing their peers, who has killed and eaten their first and only friend; I know what I am, and hold no delusions. I am a monster.

"If scars forever bore the moment of their making, then I would be forever wearing the death of my parents and my own attempted murder on my forehead. Scars, like all other things, are only as significant as you allow them to be, Tom Riddle," he says, and the silly man making up insane stories about ice-cream flavours can simply not be the same person as this young warrior, wise beyond his blood-drenched years. There is a strange tenderness in his voice that attracts me and scares me at the same time, calms me and agitates me simulteneously. My mind slowly re-examines his words, over and over and over again, their meaning sinking slowly into me, and I find them strangely soothing.

"Not that I have made any decisions as of yet, but is your offer of acquiring my guardianship still valid?" I ask reluctantly, cautiously, but with feigned disinterest, for I have come to understand that there is no one else that can possibly see in me what the green man sees, that can discern the sickness, and still be willing to teach me, and offer me his power. He looks pleasantly surprised, and his features brighten for a second, a smile adorning his face, and though I've already let go of his hand, I still feel something of the previous contact lingering on my skin.

"Certainly," he answers simply.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: The amazing, creative goddess that came up with Harry Potter is a lovely British woman by the name of JK Rowling. My petty little self simply steals him and slashes him for my own obscure and twisted pleasures.

A/N: No updates in three days! What's wrong with me? Actually, you will have to forgive me because I have been terribly, terribly busy with that new puppy my boyfriend brought in. Now our household is a total of two humans, three dogs and a cat. Jesus Christ! So this chapter will be long, to make up for the waiting.

To Pouf: Your confusing Tom lesson 1 is so spot on! He is just not willing to believe that such a thing as an "impulse" exists. I'd like to see him try and analyze Albus, it would burn his brain circuits.

To NougatEvolution: You're right, the fun from these kind of nonsensical statements comes from coming up with them, observing them out loud in Queen's English while keeping your face straight, and pretending to be amazed at your own genius.

To Twilight's Aura: A ...sitcom? Blasphemy!

To Barranca: Indeed, I was actually quite moved myself when I wrote this scene. I have become attached to my Tom Riddle. As for the (pre-)slashy undertones... Potter was actually being factual when he called Tom absurdly beautiful, and yet, calling someone that while you are holding their hand is a gesture that can evoke quite a few emotions.

To Muffin-Marco: Hello. I'll go add a scratch on my bedpost now. About having fun reading the disturbing scenes, well, I didn' really have fun writing them. Actually I had nightmares. So I think that might make you a bit scary.

* * *

Chapter 23

Potter's PoV

We apparate back to the castle, and without a further word, we part. I want to wish him a good night, but when I turn around his back is already tuned to me and he is walking away, so I keep it to myself. It's not like there's any point in conversing any further. It seems he has almost accepted my guardianship offer, and that's pretty much all that needed to be said. It is a terrific vitory for me, but it also makes me happy just because I have come to care about this boy's fate, somehow.

I watch him walk away for a few seconds, before I start moving towards my own quarters. The sensation of the rough, uneven scar marring his left hand still lingers on my fingers. It is so ironic that it should all come back to cicatrices once again. A scar and its meaning had dominated my whole life, another one and the memory of its creation is destroying his. Perhaps scars is all people are made out of; be it invisible, visible, physical, mental or emotional ones. But if he is willing to accept my help, I will do my very best to ease his pain. Because now I am absoutely sure that pain was the driving force behind Voldemort's birth, and the existence of this horrible darkness inside Riddle's soul.

I pour myself, as I so often do these days, a glass of Firewhiskey.

Even though I have come to see Tom Riddle as less of a monster in the making and more of a sick, lost young man, I still can't forget the cruel, emotionless Horcrux of his sixteen year old self, feeding off Ginny's last breaths. He will be forteen in a week or so, and in more or less two years he might be a man capable of murder, of splitting his own soul, of leeching off the feeling's of an innocent ginger girl. I must not allow myself to become so attached to him, for I can not sure that I am not too late.

Perhaps he has simply been manipulating me all this time, perhaps behind his breathtaking features already lies the heart of a beast.

And yet as much as I warn myself against it, I fully believe in Riddle. Seeing him smile at his Patronus, watching him cast an _Expecto Ager Curam_ with fascination written all over his delicate face, hearing him laugh. I am sure he can be redeemed. He must; because if I fail, I shall not only be force to taint my hands with blood once more. I will also be a little heartbroken.

I down the rest of the alcohol with a swift movement and transfigure my robes into sleeping apparel. And yet, I don't really believe that sleep will come easy tonight, nor that it will in any way be peacefull. As much as I tried to imitate Albus' cheerful, warm demeanor earlier today, I couldn't seem to get rid of this strange feeling of dread when faced with the boy. Why is it that I fail to get my emotions under control? My thoughts become tangled and blurry as my mind slowly shuts down, sleep overtaking me.

* * *

**_I am in a large cell. The walls surrounding me are made out of hard stone, and although they are occasionally ornated by humid moss, they are grey and depressing. It's cold, and dark. I crawl around the room, desperate for a human contact, a source of warmth. This is when I stuble upon a warm body, and it's the body of Tom Riddle. His eyes are shut and his visage pale and lifeless, so I bring my hand to his veins, only to detect a fragile, fading pulse. Grief overwhelms me, and I embrace the young boy in an effort to warm his slender, cooling body._**

**_While I hold the young student against me, feeling the faint beat of his heart on my chest, his body spasms violently. I lower him to my lap and watch helpless as he convulses, shakes and shivers. I cry for help, for a mediwizard, but my voice echoes alone in the cold, empty cell. It is then that I notice a strange twitching movement on Riddle's abdomen, and I rip his robes, leaving his porcelain chest exposed. Indeed, the skin there is rippling, twirling, bubbling._**

**_And then it violently rips, blood spilling all around us, and from within the gashing wound the familar face of Voldemort rises, eating its way out of the boy's shivering body. I drop the shredded flesh and stand up, watching in horror as Voldemort starts laughing, his face distorted as it was when he inhabited the backside of Quirrel's head. "You are too late. I was already eating me way out long before you found him. Another loved one you could not save. You are breaking all the records." he hisses triumphantly, and I feel warm tears streaming down my cheeks, a devastating pain ripping through my chest. _**

**_I scream._**

I am still still screaming when I wake up, drowned in sweat and tears. I thank Merlin for the Silencing charms I have placed around my rooms, and pour myself yet another glass of Firewhiskey. A bad idea, for my hands are still shaking, and the glass drops to the floor, shattering to a thousand pieces.

When the sun finally rises, I reluctantly bring myself to go get some breakfast. I sit next to Albus, who welcomes me with a beaming smile, a warm gesture that immediately helps me regain my strenght. I smile back at him, and then he pushes some warm, warm tea towards me, which I politely accept. Tea, the panacea. Taking small sips to avoid having my tongue burned, I let my gaze wander around the student tables, subconsciously searaching for Tom.

I find him eating a pie of some sort, and that greatly relieves me, for I know that he does not generally eat anything for breakfast unless he has had a good night's sleep. Although I did not have that privilege myself, I at least know now that I have helped someone else temporarily defeat their nightmares. I smile at the boy discreetly, and in an equally subtle way, barely anything more than the tiniest curving of his lips' edge, he returns my smile.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

Although I try to avoid directly staring into his eyes, my gaze keeps following the green man as best as it possibly can without around the suspicions of my annoying, pathetic classmates. When he offers me this secret smile of his, that so drastically morhps his face into a source of gentle light, I cannot help but express my own subtle appreciation. Well, apparently not that subtle, for I briefly catch Walburga's dark eyes pinned on my curved lips, an expression of realisation on her plain features.

Oh well, let her try to embarass me if she has the courage to do so; not only will her attempt fail abysmally, she will also end up ridiculing herself in public. There is nothing, let alone an angry little girl, that my sharp tongue and even sharpest wit can't handle; and thus I smirk at her challengingly.

The rest of the day passes only too quickly I notice, for Potter does not seek me out today, nor can I bring myself to seek him out instead, for I do not wish to show any need or weakness. Perhaps after the unsettling intensity of our previous encounter, it is a wise choice to let ourselves enjoy an eventless, easy day. At the mere memory of his hand around mine, of his steady, strong glare piercing right through me, I feel the slightest shiver and an odd electrical ripple travelling down my spinal nerves. Immediately, a deep sense of shame overwhelms me for letting his actions affect me so; for allowing someone to have such a strong impact on me against my better knowledge. And yet, this may be for the best, an opportunity for me to learn, to heal, to gain power and inner balance.

"Tom Riddle, you do seem a little distracted lately. Is everything quite alright?" Eleanna Goyle's shrilly voice inquire from somewhere behind me, and in a few seconds I have already devised of more than a dozen ways to reply to her in a way that will force her to break into tears. I turn around swiftly but as elegantly as possible, and let my cool glare penetrate her mercilessly, while I confuse her with a well-rehearsed, radiant, dazzling smile.

"Dear Eleanna, worry not for me. My thought are simply swirling around a challenging Charm's prject. You know me, I cannot bring myself to relax with an academic puzzle laying unresolved," I respond smoothly, partially amazed at my own undeniable talent in acting, and partially worn out by the senseless, irritating existence of other students.

"Oh, I thought I'd be something like that. Well, good luck with it," she exclaims happily, while I am busy trying to comprehend how a person as extraordinairily dim-witted as miss Goyle has managed to make it to puberty without accidently forgetting how to breathe. The more I think about it, the more the prospect of a winter break during which I will be rid of both this mass of abhorrent children and my disgusting foster father appeals to me, and I find myself imcreasingly impatient.

I spend the next few hours in the library, immersed in dusty tomes that provide as much more interesting and enrichening company than my petty classmates, absorbing bits and pieces of delicious knowledge that have thus far managed to surprisingly escape my notice. My mind drowns pleasantly in a world of magical signatures, combinational spells, runical components of defensive wards and the structural flaws of unstable charms, and when I pull myself out of the yellowed pages, it is already dark outside.

* * *

As soon as I glide into the common room, the unpleasant, brain-damaging noise of malevolent gossip as well a sour, squinted-eyed Walburga greet me. I almost surrender to my urge to cast a potent vanishing spell on this putrid room and all of its human contents, but instead I smile warmly at my supposed friends, receiving many warm grins in return. I wonder whether in Potter's timeline Tom Riddle managed to keep this pretence up during the whole seven years of his education; if so, I can surely understand why he would end up irredeemably insane and obsessed with destruction.

"You have been spending an awful lot of time in the library. It would seem you are trying to impress some teacher. Or perhaps a teaching assistant..." Walburga observes in a fakely casual tone, only partialy concealing the venom in her voice, and quite a few cowardly Slytherins looked troubled by that obvious attack towards me, and brace themselves for the brewing storm. The Black girl had mostly been an ally for me up to now, and perhaps one of the least pathetic and useless ones; yet truly, she is being pitiful right now, with her silly little attempts to vex me.

"Walga, I have been practically living in the library ever since I first came to the castle. And you must know that I always aim for top grades in all my classes. Why would you only now note a behaviour that has been more than apparent for years?" I reply smoothly, forcing my cold eyes into hers, and then allowing my lips to ever so slightly twist upwards, in a mocking manner. Her lips pursed together and her wand hand twitching a bit, I can tell that the hysterical, spiteful little witch is having a hard time fighting the urge to openly insult me or even curse me. She doesn't. She is not that stupid.

"I am just worried about you Tom, you barely grace your classmates with your presence anymore. I wanted to let you know that if there is anything troubling you lately, you can always talk to us. Slytherins protect their own," she offers in a feminine, mellow manner, and although the sympathy-and-concern card is fairly well-played, I try hard not to snort. She is quite an amateur at this, poor little Walburga, for she unwittingly showed me an opening which will not only allow me to counter her claims, but also humiliate her. I remain silent for a moment, and the other worms around us seem to be holding their breath; then I pretend to realise something, working on the impression of sudden knowledge dawning onto my eyes.

"Oh. I see. I am truly sorry Walburga, I did not know that my absences would be so painful to you. I had not... recognised you feel this way. I did not mean to hurt you," I reply in the slowest, most compassionate and merciful tone of voice I can manage without throwing up, and I take a gentle step towards the girl. She is of course shocked and horrified, her cheeks undeniably flushed by what I presume is outrage and shame at my suggestion; and yet her loss of words and blushing face will most probably be gravely missunderstood by our peers. Then, suddenly, her eyes harden with hatred, as she realises that I have caused every single Slytherin to be convinced of her speculated infatuation of me, and her jealousy towards anyone else monopolising my time.

I wait for her to passionately deny my implications, but wisely enough she does not, knowing full well that a fervent outburst of denial and rage will only convince our audiance of her presumed crush even more, and put her in a considerably worse position. Therefore, she throws at me a long, hard look of unadulterated loathing before she turns around and stomps away, leaving a baffled handfull of Slytherin morons behind.

"It's alright Tom, she'll get over it. You know how girls get when they develop such attachments. You couldn't have possibly known she's be sdo sensitive about this," Abraxas, the blond conceited scumbag comments sympathetically, but his playful wink suggets that he is aware of what really transpired between me and miss Black, for he is one of the rare few who have noticed what an excellent manipulator I am.

Not that this observation actually prevents him from becoming a victim of my charm himself, but at least I can appreciate his fairly sharp wit when it comes to verbal conflicts and the art of deceiving the crowds.

* * *

Nothing else even remotely interesting happens later that day, and I spend my time trying to block out of my mind the excrutiating sounds of children babbling incoherently, and the appaling sight of their little bodies moving around without good reason. When nighttime finally arrives, I feel myself flooded with relief, for I can finally be rid of all this sensory pollution that clouds the clarity of my thought processes. The mattress embraces the light weight of my body, and Nagini slowly slithers up my torso before resting her elegant head on my upper chest, affectionately.

"I hate humansss, Nagini. They are sssimply the annoying white noise in thisss otherwise interessting world." I let her know, and I once more trail my long fingers down her smooth scales, silently appreciating their glossy surface; she responds immediately, by pushing her body against my hand demandingly, like a cat would.

"All humansss? If you could sssimply cassst a ssspell an make them all vanish, would you do ssso?" she asks in a curious voice, and I really like how she does not judge me at all about my ire and hatred, but instead she merely expresses her interest in my opinions, casually. Her surprisingly clever question appears an easy yes at first, yet the answer turns out in fact a little more complex than I had initially anticipate.

"No. I'd keep the green man, I believe. for he is simply too intruiging and has much to teach me." I pause there.

"Grindelwald is also rather compelling, so I would not disspose of him unless I have solved the enigma of his asscension to power and his abrupt retreat from it. Perhapsss I'd keep Nicholas Flamel for a while, too, sssince he did always sstrike me as a rather fasscinating character..." I begin rambling, trying to recall variour witches and wizards that I have occasionally exhibited an interest in, people that I would like to confront at least once in my life with a few personal questions.

"Sssee? You don't actually dessspise all of your ssspecies. Sssimply the incompetent oness, which is natural seeeing as you are such a compulsssive perfectionissst," Nagini deduces quite logically, and I look down at her intelligent, bright eyes, noticing that she has perhaps grown a little larger since I first acquired her.

"It'sss curiouss that Potter isss the only one you mentioned without any hesssitation. Isss it because of our twinned magicksss, or because he wasss the one who gave me to you?" she suddenly adds, her last words tinged with a bit of playful teasing but her overall comment fairly serious in its nature.

"Potter actually proposed to become my legal guardian a few days ago. Although I am not positively sure whether he is simply trying to keep a closer eye on me or actually -wants- to become my guardian for some rather odd reason, I intend to eventually accept. Better him that the horrible, greasy, jaundiced, repulsive bastard that is currently trying to act as a father figure to me, anyway," I mention, and even I am not exactly sure why I would be telling my pet viper of this whole guardianship issue, for it doesn't have much to do with her, really.

"Interesssting, but not sssuprising," she hisses at me, and the expression on her reptilian face suggets that if she had eyebrows, she'd be probably arching one lazily.

"No?" I ask, for I did not think that what I just revealed to her what such a predictable outcome for our heretofore reluctant relationship.

"No," she repeats, nodding her serpentine head. Well, apparemtly, to her it was.

When I finally decide that it is time for me to sleep for a while, if only to help my body regain some of its physical strenght and to give my subconscience free reign to show me its own twisted images, I expected the process to unroll as smoothly as it did the night before. And yet it doesn't, and as soon as my eyes are closed, I find myself surprisingly plagues by various gruesome and horrifying memories and thoughts, unexpected and certainly uninvited. This is a development I am truly unprepared for, seeing as after today's relatively calm and uneventful day, I had no reason to predict an uproar of vengeful nightmares; and yet, they come.

* * *

_**I am standing in the middle of a large, aristocratic room, petrified. It is fairly cold, an eerie breeze infiltrating through the open windows and chilling my unmoving body. I then lift my hands, and I stare at them in terror, for they are soaked with blood, dyed crimson up to my elbows. And yet, I have no visible wounds on myself, and I do not know whether this fact relieves me or horrifies me even more. When I finally manage to tear my eyes off the hemoglobin glistering seductively in the dark, I look down, and there lies Potter, pale and lifeless.**_

_**I kneel next to him, and I suddenly feel a wave of overwhelming panic assaulting my mind, as I realise that he is little more than a corpse by now. I immediately know that it is me who killed him, and I scream in grief and fear, appaled by my own destructive nature but unable to hold it back. Suddenly the dead wizard's eyes flick open, and the green orbs, green like Avada Kedavra, meet mine with unnatural force and precision. His blueish lips part, and he whispers, his voice hoarse, low, dead.**_

_**"It's alright, I knew this could very possibly happen. You are, after all, a monster. You are Voldemort," the green man tells me before collapsing again, and the small, bittersweet smile on his beautiful face causes a massive, boundless wave of pain and remorse ripping through my chest. My eyes fill with tears, and I lean towards his once more frigid, lifeless body, only to notice my own reflection on his glassy eyes. I am pasty, deformed creature, with slits instead of nostrils, with a thin line instead of soft, curving lips. My head is smooth, hairless, abnormally sleak, and my eyes shine red, just like the blood on my hands. I am Voldemort, I realise, and a few more tears, clear and tasteless, stroll down my cold, pallid cheeks.**_

When I wake up, my cheeks are indeed humid, and I can barely believe my own body would betray me thus.

* * *

Potter's PoV

It's Monday, and it's Transfiguration time for third years, so the door of the unused classroom eventually opens with a nasty creak. Tom Riddle walks in, his face as neutral and perfectly symmetrical as it usually is. Only today, after he sits down in the same spot where he always does, he turns around and offers me a very slight but visible smile. It holds a strange sadness that catches me by surprise, and for I moment I wonder whether I should question him about this. I decide against it, and instead I walk towards him and take my wand out.

"Today I'll teach you another nice spell, the kind that hasn't been invented yet. This one was to be invented by my good friend Hermione, but I doubt that she will ever come to exist in this timeline," I start, and immediately my intro catches his interest, as his eyes follow my wand very carefully.

"Due to the sheer power of this spell, and the fact that I don't want to need to explain how t Dippet why I destroyed this classroom, I suggest we go visit a different room," I continue, and the mention of a spell of such amazing power, his eyes light up scarily, and he even licks his lips, although I doubt he realises it. I stand up, and he follows me a little too eagerly, betraying his rising impatience. I give him a slightly critical look, and immediately he becomes aware of his behaviour and regains his cool, graceful composure. Sometimes, we don't even need to talk.

We arrive at the Room of Requirement, and he turns to me, a puzzled expression on his face. Indeed, I remind myself that Tom Riddle, ironically enough, did not discover this chamber until much later; in fact he thought it so great and unique a discovery when he eventually did, that he even hid one of his Horcruxes there. Restrospectively, it is a very amusing thought. I smile at him in mocking fondness, and he seems completely confused and slightly mistrusting.

"This is the Room of Requirement. It will change itself to suit your needs, as long as you think of these needs as you open the door. I'll demonstrate by wishing for a training grounds," I explain to the boy, whose face is still soaked in reluctance. He archs an eyebrow, revealing his interest in the nature of this room, and waits for me to open the door. When I finally do, the room is large and filled with wizard-like mannequins; Riddle's eyes widen and then his delicate features break into a large smirk. I guess he is going to be using this room from now on.

With a slight movement of the hand, I group a dozen of mannequins by placing them little more than a foot apart from each other, and he closes the door behind us. He looks rather excited to my knowing eyes, although he moves elegantly, lazily and keep his visage cool and serene.

"This is a very curious room, I shall make sure to carry out some research on its magical structure..." he mumbles more to himself than to me, but he immediately stops as he notices I am about to cast the impressive spell mentioned before. Since I took my wand out while we were still in the classroom, I swiftly assume a dueling pose, body to the side and right foot extended foward, wand two feet away from the torso.

"Watch," I simply say, and I smile at him. "_Lux Aeternus Obscurum Vigeo_" I hiss and flick my beautiful holly stick, feeling the magic of Fawkes' feather resonate. Two beams spring from its tip, one dark and consuming, one light and radiant. They shoot foward with great power and speed, becoming entangled with one another and growing the process, until they become huge strands of bleak shadow and brilliant light. At least fourteen mannequins are thrown backwards violently, and in most cases little more than a few splinsters of wood remain.

I turn to the young student, whose lips have subconsciously parted, and eyes are considerably wide. He walks towards the annihilated mannequins, examining the impressive damage done, and perhaps imagining the carnage that this spell would have produced if instead of dolls it had hit a group of wizards. He raises his head and stares at me in restrained awe, but awe nonetheless, before he leans back down in a leisurely manner, observing the magical residue.

"Eternal light and blooming darkness? What sort of spell is that...? It's unlike anything I have ever seen or even read about before," he finally admits, and the generally even and empty eyes of his are now the vessels of a beautiful blue storm. I smile at him, hoping for the thousanth time that I am not following the wrong path in the way I am handling this young man.

_I'm about to teach one of the deadliest spells in my arsenal to a young Voldemort. _

_If I am wrong about him, if he has been pulling my strings all this time, then Merlin help us all._

* * *

"It is indeed something entirely new. Up to the point of its invention, spells were believed to be either Light, Dark, or simply neutral, odourless if you want, grey. This one is a very special case, for it is both a light and a dark spell, and yet its structure, as you saw, is not the homogeneous one of the typical grey spell. It's a spell that draws from both edges of the spectrum, without dulling the strength of either one, and this is the reason behind its fantastic potency," I let him know cheerfully, pretty much repeating the explanation 'Mione had given a few years back. He looks simply flabbergasted.

"Is that... even possible?" he simply mutters in the end, his face still shining with radiating excitement, albeit well hidden behind his impressive calm.

"Apparently it is. But please, don't ask me how she did it, for as much as I was superior to her in matters of casting and raw magical power, I was little more than a child compared to her when it came down to academia," I offer him warmly, and I unwillingly smile fondly at the memory of Hermione, my brilliant little witch, my most valued companion. Of course, he notices my momentary flashback. He is too observant not to.

"She must have been a witch out of the ordinary, to have achieved something like that," he states rather quietly but with convication, and I am pleasantly surprised by his words. It is as if he is paying his respects to a person he does not even know, simply because I exhibited such admiration for her.

"She was. Is. Will be. Whatever," I start replying, and I confuse myself with matters of grammar and time-travel. "And yet her talented was not widely respected, nor did she receive as much acclaim as other, less important wizards of her time did. In spite of the fact that, of course, everyone was aware of her extraordinairy genius," I state, and I am surprised by how sad I sound, how hurt.

"Oh. Why?" he asks, and indeed, sometimes, he is a child. He does not know that the world does not always reward the valiant ones, the talented ones. He seems to believe in some sort of universal meritocracy, some cosmic justice that will reward the able ones. Well, better that than becoming the disillusioned, merciless Voldemort, taking justice into his own monstrous hands.

"She was a muggle-born," I state in a flat voice, and his first reaction is to be surprised. Immediately, he realises that being surprised is rather offensive towards muggle-borns, and he hides this emotion underneath his blank visage. After a second thought, he appears troubled and annoyed at the concept of a genius being cast aside due to her heritage. It is obvious that in spite of his faux-pas, he still does believe in merit more than he believes in blood.

"Anyway, don't you want to try the spell?" I disrupt his thoughts, and he looks up at me with a growing smirk on his face, as if he wan't expecting I'd actually allow him to cast such a destructive incantation. But I know better. I know that when you forbid a kid from eating chocolate, he will probably end up feeding on chocolate alone as soon as he turns eighteen. He takes his wand out.

"What you must do, is put yourself in a position of inner duality. It is the state of inner conflict that gives birth to the _Lux Obscura _spell. For example, try to think of a matter on which you hold two different opinions between which you can not really decide. It doesn't matter if the problem is actually fictional or imaginary, as long as it emotionally intense," I explain to him, and immediately he looks very puzzled by this prerequisite. He doesn't say anything, but it is obvious that he expects further explanation.

"I'll give you an example then. A horrible witch named Bellatrix Lestrange once murdered my godfather. She was a cruel, heartless being. And yet, I do not enjoy killing, and I had always tried to turn the killers I caught in, to the Aurors mostly. Let them be trialed. The situation I just forced myself to experience emotionally before I cast the spell was the following. Bellatrix Lestrange is before me, wounded and wandless. Do I simply shoot an Avada at her, or summon the Ministry to take of her? Both urges were equally strong, equally justified, and were represented in the dark and the light parts of my resulting spell."

"I see. The mental prerequisites to casting a Patronus or a Cruciatus seem very straight-forward compared to this," Tom murmurs, and then his dark gaze wanders off. He stays silent for a long, long time.

* * *

When he finally breaks his silence it is only to cast.

"_Lux Aeternus Obscurum Vigeo_" he whispers, and the emotional intensity on his face is unsettling. Unlike in the case of the Patronus charm or the _Expecto Ager Curam_, he gets this one right one his first try. More than right, in fact. The impact of the blow is simply mind-boggling, razing to the ground nearly ten of the nearby mannequins. And yet, he does not rejoice, his features pensive and hard. I smile ever so slightly at him, examining his face, beautiful as much as it troubled.

"Excellent. Inner conflict comes easy for you, it seems. What did you think about?" I ask him gently. He turns his dark, turbulent eyes towards mine, establishing a consuming, fervent eye-contact that I simply daren't break away from.

"Whether I am Voldemort or not," he replies simply. His voice is almost a whisper, troubled and somewhat fragile, but not without the slightest hint of sharp malice.

Neither of us say anything for a very long time, and the air is almost cackling with tension. And despite being almost alarmed by the cold sincerity of his answer, his aching expression pains me. I can only guess how profoundly torn he must be, unwillingly witnessing through me the horrors of his future self.

"Why would you teach me such a powerful, desctructive spell? Aren't you afraid that one day I might kill people with it?" he asks me, breaking the silence, and now his handsome face is strangely cool, with a hint of melancholic sadness. Behind his question, I think I see a need for reassurance. Perhaps he wants to hear that he is not a monster yet, that the future will not necessarily make him into a cruel, twisted beast. If he was not Tom Riddle, I'd think the boy might cry, for his nostrils flare and his facial muscles tighten. His eyes, burning into mine, are a little desperate.

"Riddle, I am the sort of fool that would try to turn you into a light wizard. It's against your nature. You will not become a healer or a botanist, Tom, let us not kid ourselves. You will probably not marry a nice girl and have five chubby children. I will not try and force you to live a life that will make you suffer, and I know that living your life as the nice man next door will feel like a slow death to you. But that's alright, and you still need not become something like Voldemort," I confess to him. I refuse to be dishonest with the boy. I continue.

"What I **am** trying to show you is that all magic, light, dark and anything inbetween, is precious and brilliant. I can only hope you will open your mind to the world of magic, all of it, indiscriminately, for if you do that, you will never become a monster," I conclude gently, and already he seems to have regained his emotional stability. He seems to be replaying my words inside his mind, and his clenched jaw relaxes, his features soften. Once again, a brief silence reigns.

"So that is your motive. I thought so," he finally exclaims, factually and perhaps a little playfully.

"Then why did you ask?" I ask him, a smile of amusement forming on my face.

"Perhaps I like your voice," Riddle murmurs in a low voice, and then he smirks flirtariously, the trouble gone from behind his eyes. And yet I know what he is truly saying. _Maybe__ I wanted to hear someone say it_, his eyes tell me.

I understand.


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: Surprisingly enough, I am not Rowling. I am a kinky geek with anarchist tendencies and a visor cap fetish. That means I can unfortunately not own Harry Potter. Sucks to be me.

A/N: This is the last chapter before the winter break. Yes, I said the winter break. As in, Gellert, Tom, Harry and Albus together in a cottage. Beware. I will now be tying all loose ends before I let insanity begin.

To Pouf: I would also be hoping that by now Tom does not wish to become a feared Dark Lord. Perhaps a respected Grey Lord will do. About Nagini, in DH Voldemort apologises to her before placing her in a protective cage, by uttering '_It is the only way, Nagini'. _That's quite OOC for Voldemort, and it does betray some sort of bond between them. I could not simply have used her as comic relief.

To ForgottenTales: Thank you for appreciating the lack of Dumbledore bashing. I never did understand why people find it necessary to hate Dumbledore in order to like Voldemort.

To The Dark Lady Voldemort666: I am sorry but I disagree with you on Harry doing all the wrong things. Denying and ignoring a memory of trauma is NOT the best solution. It's what Riddle did in the canon timeline, which caused him to subconsciously erode and decline with time, becoming a demented megalomaniac, because ignoring pain does NOT make the effects go away. Wounds must be healed, even if it takes time, tears and effort. What I can admit though, is that teaching young Tom very powerful spells is a great risk on Potter's part. But who's to say he'll fail?

To NougatEvolution: The blow to Walpurga's reputation was a real pleasure to write. I might have been snickering, too. Or even moaning.

* * *

Chapter 24

Riddle's PoV

During my impressively boring and absolutely useless Herbology lesson, it suddenly occurs to me that lately my confrontations with Potter are pretty much the only thing I feel even a mild interest for during my everyday life. Rewinding and replaying my own recent behaviour inside my mind, I realise that I must seem increasingly distant in the eyes of both my moronic classmates and my pathetic teachers, constantly drowned in unspoken thoughts. Perhaps I should try to rectify this, for I do not want my supposed friends or admirers amongst the Hogwarts staff to become concerned about my emotional well-being and start digging into my life more than they already do.

Therefore I spend the rest of the day concentrated on being pleasant, humble, inquisitive and adorable, radiating charisma on my helpless, pitiful victims. I will admit that I no longer enjoy playing with other people's emotions and desires so shamelessly, for it is too easy and not the least bit engaging.

It is like taking candy from a blind child in a wheelchair, which makes it dubiously ethical even for my own _very_ low standards.

_Then don't bother doing it_, the annoying little voice inside my head suggets, but I inwardly snort at it. Seriously, what would you have me do instead, moronic conscience? Express in all honesty my absolute loathing for these pathetic creatures around me, and kindly letting them know that I cannot manage to feel anything but scorn and repulsion towards them?

"Oh, Professor Slughorn, your latest paper on Dream-altering Potions was excellent. I read it as soon as it became published, and I must say I most honored to be your student!" I exclaim in exaggerated admiration, my eyes bright with excitement and impossibly blue, and I watch as Horace, that greedy, greasy moron, beams with pride. I mutter a few more subtle compliments, and then a few challenging questions so that he may be reminded of my exquisite talents and endearing, curious nature, and we part. What would be his reaction if I had instead told him that every time he talks to me, I feel like regurgitating my dinner, for he is one of the most aversive, conceited, stupid creatures I have ever come across, and that I would be infinitely pleased if he finally managed to poison himself with one of his petty concoctions?

There need be no answer formulated.

I has been many years since I felt the slightest, even distant, bit of guilt about deceiving others; whether I like it or not, I am a wolf amongst the sheep, so fraudulence here is not a crime, but simply my only means of survival. There would be no place for me in this world if I revealed myself as the violent, amoral prodigy I truly am, this shell containing the endless battle between the irrepressible desire to kill and unwillingness to be a monster. So truth is, unfortunately, not an option for me, nor is kindness and human contact.

Except for when I am with green man, that is, the treacherous little voice from inside my mind slyly reminds me. Then I can be myself, then I am free to be the sociopath I am without fear rejection or retribution, then I may speak my mind and show the war within me fearessly; and Morgana what a relief that is, at times.

* * *

I spend a few hours in the library, happily devouring information and letting my mind soak in it, filling in the very scarce blanks of my mental encyclopedia. But when eventually the sun sets, I decide to return to my common room and perhaps spend some time with the cunning little worms of Slytherin; I wouldn't want to cut my ties with my own house, as having them adore me is simply too convenient.

"Tom Riddle, it will be curfew soon. I am sure our fellow Slytherins will be waiting for you," Eileen offers in her monotonous, lifeless voice when I come across her in the dungeon corridors, and I find myself amused at the fact that I wouldn't have even noticed her if she hadn't spoken out.

Eileen, so apt in her lessons and yet afraid to even order me, a third-year boy, back to my rooms at night, is surprised to see me smile at her. What a dull, fragile existence she leads, what a bland, petty life; playing gobstones, chasing students in the corridors and inventing potions that Slughorn will never even take a look at, for he is a superficial, disgusting bastard. I almost feel sorry for her, knowing that she wishes above all else to receive a apprenticeship offer from Horace-the-Slug, but knows that she will never receive one, due to her sullen and sour looks and quiet personality.

"You know, Eileen, you were not made Head Girl without a reason. You are probably the most intelligent girl in your year. If Slughorn can't see that, it's because he is more attracted to social charms than real talent. You should write a letter requesting an apprenticeship to Matteus Longbernen, as he is both more accomplished in the field of potion-making, and less blind to academic merit," I factually suggest, and she looks completely stunned, but before she has the time to formulate an answer, I have already turned around and taken my leave. I am not sure of the motives behind my sudden impulse to say that, but it probably has to do with how defeatism completely repulses and unsettles me.

* * *

I experience no nightmares of any kind tonight, which is surprising enough since it was not exactly the least controversial kind of day, and the next morning flows swiftly and inevitably towards my much anticipated Transfiguration lesson. Without even bothering to show up at Humble-bore's classroom I walk straight to the abandoned room where Potter always awaits, and push the door strongly and impatiently. The young, wide-shouldered wizard is lying on the desk, his legs crossed in a relaxed manner and his hands entwined behind his head, staring impassively at the ceiling. I am fairly entertained by his strangely inappropriate position, for if only he had a dried wheat stalk between his lips he'd probably look just like a cow herder from a bad American romance.

In a matter of seconds though, he is up and standing, exhibiting an oddly good mood through his warm grin and shining eyes. I decide not to pollute the strangely comfortable silence with any unnecessary words, so I simply throw at him an expression of mock disapproval at his preposterous ease and I sit down. He walks up to my chair, and stares at me in a steady, examining way that actually causes me to eventually feel uncomfortable, and although I do not of course fidget, I do feel like doing so inwardly.

"You know, I had Minerva McGonagall do some research on the signature blending rituals and their cross-generational effects. Being a compulsive little bookworm, she did come up with a bit of new information that is pretty fascinating. And that also explains a strange occurrence related to me and the Voldemort of my timeline." he explains, and then he smiles at me once again, perhaps amused at me ecident curiosity and piqued interest.

"Let us try an experiment. I will turn around in a way that you can't see my face, so that you can't draw conclusions on my emotional state from the tension on my face. And then I will think hard about something that will make me feel a certain way. I want you to try and see if you can sense approximately what I am feeling," he proposed, and I admit to being both surprised and bemused by his so-called experiment.

"You have yourself noted that I am exhibiting most traits of a _clinical psychopath_. I doubt this is compatible with the gift of boundless empathy," I reply somewhat mockingly, but not in a truly derisive way; I just need to express my utter disbelief at his suggestion. He does not do much but shrug, and then he turns around, leaving little choice but to follow through with this bizarre procedure.

He stands there, unmoving, seemingly plunged in intense thought, but as hard as I try to concentrate on how he may possibly be feeling, the only thing I actually manage to observe it that he owns a rather attractive backside, which is a completely useless and unrelated piece of information. Thus I eventually snort, and cross my arms.

"There us no chance this would ever possibly…" I begin in a fairly flat tone, but I do not finish my sentence, because I suddenly experience an alien pang of anger, discreet but definitely identifiable. At first I do not react to it at all, for I am very familiar with how these self-induced miracles work, and I know just how the mind can play such games at times. Only I soon receive a second pang of anger, not any stronger than the first one admittedly, but one I can simply not deny.

"Ire," I state, my voice unfaltering in spite of my strange apprehension in the face of this new mystery, and he immediately turns around. I need but a short look at his glowing features to deduce that the emotion I identified was the correct one, and that knowledge somehow frightens me. I cover that odd sentiment of fear with a sarcastic comment, although I am aware that it will impress neither Potter not me.

"Well isn't that ironic. I hope it only works with you, because I am not really inclined to become the unwilling master of emotional understanding," I observe dryly, and from the very slight, trembling smile on his lips I understand that he finds my comment more endearing than actually disappointing, which somehow annoys me; I do not aim to entertain. "I am glad my irritation amuses you," I spit, and this time I am not being sarcastic. I am being truly, spitefully venomous, and he notices that by immediately losing the smile and nailing his eyes onto me.

"I was actually just amused by the fact that this ability is, indeed, ironic. Don't be so temperamental. It's unnatural for you," he responds rather casually, but in a serious tone, and I decide that perhaps the poison in my voice was uncalled for. After all, I wouldn't want to destroy my lovely reputation of being cool and collected. Many of my aspiring friends or lovers find great appeal in that demeanor.

"Does this work on your end of the line as well, Potter?" I inquire with mild curiosity, and I try to warm my tone back, steering our interaction back on safe ground carefully, unwilling to come into conflict with such an intimidating wizard. And also unwilling to destroy the budding bond between us, the quiet comfort he offers me when I most needed. It would be a careless and rather stupid move on my side, compromising the most engaging, most genuinely true part of my life.

"It does. It did since I was a child, but it was always supposed by the masses to be a side-effect of having a piece of your soul inside me. The fact it still works, without my currently being a vessel to a part of your mutilated psyche supports Minnie's theory," he tells me, and he becomes quite cheerful once more, which makes me feel a strange rush of relief. He has already reason enough to be cautious and mistrusting of me, knowing the monstrous parts I hide; I would not want to have given him more reason to dislike me. Fortunately enough, he seems to believe in me quite strongly, which is both encouraging and unsettling, and my occasional slips and misbehaviour do not seem to shake his resolve.

"Minnie's theory?" I repeat, and by now I am actually quite strongly interested in this eerie empathic ability, for I find the fact that the green man used to, as a child, receive the feelings of a demented Dark Lord, darkly fascinating. It must have been a rather unique, turbulent childhood for him; no wonder hatred and scorn no longer surprise him if he has been feeling their projection for years and years.

"Yes. See, some of the most popular war-spells during the Mesopotamian era were, just like the Patronus charm or the Ager Curam, based on the emotional input of the caster. Minerva found references suggesting that part of the signature-blending ritual was to ensure that such spells could be cast jointly in a smooth manner by the twinned magical cores. This would mean that the bond must have had a component meant to help the wizards harmonise their emotional states, thus easing the joint use of such spells. This is where the fact I had been experiencing many of Voldemort's emotions during my time as a student began making sense to me," he explains, and once again I note that he is actually very intelligent, despite of constantly presenting himself as the strong kind of wizard rather than the clever one.

"But did not your Voldemort also become able to tune into your own emotions?" I ask, while I slowly digest this novel and slightly scary aspect of our signature-blending.

"Although he did manage to perform some kind of remote Legillimency on me, he did not actually feel my emotions nearly as intensely as I felt his. My theory for this is that this ability is related to the soul, and thus having only one... two to the seventh... erm... one... hundred and twenty eigth of it residing inside one's body might hinder it significantly," he answers, and I am a little stunned to hear him make fun of Horcruxes in such a casual and light-hearted manner.

To me, the concept of mutilating one's soul is both fascinating and horrifying, and most certainly not a light, humorous subject; but I guess that in this aspect, the green man is more jaded than am.

"I see. But to be honest, I do find this kind of connection increasingly disturbing," I finally state, and I let my gaze fall onto Potter's face, his strong lines and his bright, intense eyes.

"So did I, for the first five years. Especially that time when I witnessed you trying to murder my best friend's father by possessing a snake. You'll get used to it," he says, and I can tell he is both being friendly and a little bitter, yet I find myself somehow comforted by his words, for if he learned to live with it, so will I. I am not, after all, such a pathetic and weak character as to be unable to deal with few unexpected and somewhat creepy side effects of having a magical companion; if it can help me become more powerful and also aid me in keeping my dark desires under control, then it is all for the best.

"I sent a snake to do my dirty work for me? Tsk, tsk, how pitiful. I really don't sound like someone I'd like to be," I add smoothly, if not even gaily, but I know and he knows that what I truly mean to say is that Voldemort is not me, that I would not do something like that, and that perhaps, strangely enough, I am sorry.

"I wouldn't want you to be that, either. I would break my heart having to kill you. You are fairly good company," he says in an equally light-hearted manner, but I can clearly sense the heaviness, the gravity of his words, and the slight desperation echoing behind them. We keep eye contact for a few rather torturing seconds, and I can feel his eyes both begging and threatening me, gentle and mercilessly hard at the same time, which is disconcerting for me, perturbing me down to my core.

"You won't have to kill me, I think. I would lie if I said that I'm sure, or if I promised. I never promise, anyway. But I think you can save me, as ridiculous as that notion first sounded to me when you first uttered it. It's the kind of thing you're good at, is it not?" I suddenly whisper, and my voice is soft, nearly delicate, and it shocks me, and so do the startling words that just left my mouth; I feel like I am losing control of myself, my heretofore perfect façade and flawless composure crumbling once again before his green eyes. The cold, endless distance between my heart and the real world, the void separating me from anything real is closing in on me, and I clearly do not know just how to handle it.

So I do the most cowardly, the most pathetic thing to do: I turn around and walk away. Only I don't, because at the last moment a strong grip holds me back, a large palm closing around my own scarred, pallid hand. I unwillingly shiver at the skin brushing against my scar tissue, but this time I do not experience an overwhelming panic attack, or a wave of horror and disgust. Instead, I chase try to chase my trembling away, breathing heavily and slowly, before I turn my head bravely towards the men, unready to face the consequences of my rash words but unwilling to show it.

"I think I can, too. But you'll have to stop pulling away," he murmurs into my ear, and his magnificent, glorious eyes warm my visage up with their radiant heat, making my chest somehow tighten. Without prior warning, I experience the odd, terrifying urge to plunge into the taller man's embrace, because his warmth is simply too enticing, too comforting. He will soon be, after all, my supposed guardian, so such a gesture is not entirely abnormal, is it?

In the end of course, I restrain myself, and keep my feet firmly screwed to the ground, and my body frigid; I don't pull my hand away though, for I simply see no reason to do so, and because his words are resonating in my ears like a strange, gentle command.

When he finally releases my hand, I don't immediately walk away, but instead stay riveted in place for a few moments, my mind numb and unable to produce an acceptable strand of thoughts. Then I go.

* * *

Dumbledore's PoV

When a large bluebird Patronus rushes into my rooms through the open window, I am delighted for three reasons. Firstly, because I immediately recognise Gellert's Patronus, secondly, because after years of being mingled in Dark magic he has retained the ability to produce such a charm, which is encouraging, and lastly, because I like birds. The glistering charm seems to be carrying a piece of parchment, which it drops on my office. Before I open it, I eat a bit of chocolate, just in case I might feel inclined to faint.

I read it, and I do feel inclined to faint. But not in an unpleasant way at all. Mostly in a cheap Victorian romance sort of way, if you know what I mean. Then of course I scold myself for being so childish and silly, because I am, after all, a wise and powerful wizard with quite an extraordinairy reputation. **That **should impress Gellert, I think cheerfully.

_**Dear Albus.**_

_**You know that part of the Forbidden Forest where turpineweed and purple cloudbells grow? I am sure you do, since I quite certainly remember you having a fondness for purple cloudbells. You had a fondness for all sorts of absolutely useless and brightly coloured things.**_

_**I'm waiting there.**_

_**Gellert**_

_**P.S. Bring some Burn Salve if you can, that group of Aurors was very persistent and I thought killing them might upset you, so I had to find creative ways to escape.**_

I re-read, and I rush to my first-aid kit to get some salve while shoving down my threat an obscene amount of lemon drops in excitement. I then tell Fawkes, who you must now is able to carry an incredible amount of weight, to drop me off at the forest. He pecks me left ear teasingly, and then he flies out of the window and extends his legs at me. I jump off and grab them, thanking Merlin for not suffering from vertigo, and we fly off together.

When he drops me off he does so rather abruptly, and I therefore fall flat on my stomach.

"Alvays ze dramatic entrance, huh, Albus?" I hear a melodious and unmistakably German voice behind me, and I curse Fawkes for his keen eyes, for I am sure he did this on purpose, this damned bird. I should have never acquainted him to the art of pranking.

To be honest, I had pictured my first meeting with Gellert after our violent parting very differetly. I had imagined myself walking towards him proudly, emitting an aura of knowledge and skill, with expensive, ornate robes softly swept by the wind, and a Phoenix resting on my shoulder. And he would of course be amazed by the widely respected, wise and powerful wizard I had become, and he'd fall into my arms.

Instead, I am lying awkwardly on my stomach. The strangest part though, is that I can't bring myself to mind. Gellert is here, and that's all that matters. I get up quickly, and dust my robes a bit, before I offer a warm smile to my old lover. He looks great, as usual, despite the small, pointed goatee that seems to be screaming Dark wizard. His magnificent, bronze skin is marred by a burn on his right cheekbone, and I notice that a bit of hair from his right eyebrow is missing, too.

"Hey. Here you are," I say cheerily, and I take the salve out from beneath my robes. He grins at me and extends his arm to take it. I don't think that the whole fingers lingering on my palm business is accidental, but for the time being I decide to ignore it.

"Fantastic. Alvays so caring," he mutters and covers his burn with a bit of the glossy cream. Then he smiles widely, evidently soothed. He winks as me and checks me quite openly from head to toe.

"You haven't really changed, Al. Actually, zere is a chance you look better now. The graying auburn hair has a certain sophistication to it," he observes, and of course I don't blush, because I am a middle-aged Transfigurations' Master, and they do no such things.

"You could lose the goatee, though," I remark casually.

"No, I couldn't. I vant it to tingle you in all ze wrong places," he whispers seductively. We stare at each other for a while, and then I take a few steps towards him, reluctantly.

"I missed you," I say, softly.

"And yet had I not given up my position, you vould have probably hunted my down and killed me. Isn't zat true?" he replies, and our eyes seem compulsively locked.

"Yes," I actually admit.

"Vell, I like zat about you. Alvays the ethical one of ze two of us, ya?" he murmurs fondly, and he takes a few steps towards me as well. I am not sure who does it first, but we end up embracing each other tightly. And then we kiss, and although one might presume he is reaching his expiration date, Gellert still tastes, to my very biased self, like nectar and ambrosia.

His voice turns low and serious in my ear.

"I vas an idiot, Albus. I vas too consumed by my visions of glory and power, and I did not realise I vas hurting ze both of us. Ve disagreed on many things, and perhaps ve vill disagree on many more, but at least now I know zat thoery is less important zan practice, and in practice, I need you," he confesses.

"And yet you did turn yourself into a monster. You did murder you way to power, and you did collaborate with Hitler, of all people. That was not in the follies of our youth! That was now, that was just a few days ago. Why, Gellert? Why should I be willing to forgive that?" I ask him, and my voice sounds more desperate than I would have liked it to.

"I vaz certain zat you vould never forgive me for Ariana, for out fights, for my greed. And yet I was consumed by the compulsion to meet you again, to prove myself to you, to fight you. I knew no ozer way but taunting you, forcing you to come out of your hole and meet me. I vanted you to come meet me, if only at ze battlefield." he discloses, and his voice breaks, and it's mildly comical, because it's difficult for him to sound emotional enough with this accent of his. Only instead of being amused, I am actually about to cry. I don't though. Instead, I kiss him again.

_Not that I believe him, of course. That manipulative, glib, superficial wreck. No, he obviously didn't do all of this to set up some grand show-down between us._

_He did it out of greed. Ennui. Ambition. Perphaps even sadism. To amuse himself. Because he likes theatrics. Because he likes power._

_I don't care, though. I don't even care that he is lying to me right now. _

_I should, but I don't._

"I alvays fantasized of telling you I still love you vith my dying breath, just after ve fight brutally and you gloriously defeat me. It's a little disturbing, no?" he hisses and his goatee tingling my neck is indeed rather arousing.

_Liar. Liar. Liar._

"Why were you so sure that I'd defeat you?" I simply ask, a little incoherently.

"I have been reading about you, Albus. I know you have become a razer extraordinary vizard. You even defeated young Filius vith one of your arms tied behind your back, I heard."

"Oh yeah, that..." I ramble and then, finally, shut up as he kisses my jawline.

_Liar._


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I would have never, ever killed Snape off. This should be proof enough for you.

A/N: Ok, the first of the Godric's Hollow chapters is here! It's not going to be that huge, for it deals mainly with getting the wizards acquainted to one another. The next two chapters are going to be increasingly interesting and complex.

To Rubedo Jr: Thank you for your huge, inspiring reviews. No need to feel guilty for having skipped reviewing a few chapters, your force was with me. I am going to refrain from replying to your rhetorical questions, not only because they rhetorical, but also because I'd give too much away.

To NougatEvolution: Good question about the empathic element. First of all, Harry –did- notice. It's Tom that didn't. Tom didn't because this ability requires one to actually **try** and identify these emotions, and also because Tom always believes himself to be deducing Harry's emotions from his face. It never occurred to him that his understanding of Potter's feelings is too accurate for a sociopath, and there must be more than just his observation skills at play.

To Barranca: I am confused by your remark. I don't actually think there is any romance whatsoever between Potter and Tom yet, let alone a swiftly-developing one. In fact, Tom does even allow himself the comfort of an innocent embrace offered by his bloody guardian-to-be. You know, I am actually getting PMs yelling at me that I'm officially into novel-length now without having even introduced a sexual attraction in the main pairing. Conflicting reviews are mind-fucking me.

To Pouf: "Tom: *helps someone*, then... "Huh? What? Why did I-oh, right, post-hoc rationalization."" Ahahahahahahah, Merlin, your comments have me rolling on the floor laughing. I'm glad you enjoyed the silly Grindledore. It's silly because I am wasting all my seriousness quota on Potter and Riddle.

To Kokoro, PhoenixfromtheFlame, Marco and all the ones slightly squicked by the making out between middle-aged men: Just because most of us are young and beautiful, it doesn't mean that middle-aged men with goatees don't have a love life. I don't like the fact that most authors would rather resort to weird rejuvenation methods, cliché de-aging potions and whatnot to avoid writing about a chubby man with a moustache, or a lady with droopy breasts getting laid. I'll have you know I find canon Minerva HOT, and she is also very old.

* * *

Chapter 25

Potter's PoV

On Tuesday morning, in the Great Hall, Dippet stands up with a grave look on his face and requests our attention for a moment. I find that to be a little strange, because the Headmaster is a completely useless individual, and he doesn't make announcements unless he really, really has to. He loos somewhat upset, too, which somehow makes me feel a little happy, because to be honest, I dislike the man. He is perhaps one of the worst Hogwarts Headmasters to have ever served, and even the future versions of Howarts: A History reluctantly admit it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will need to make an announcement. According to the Ministry of Magic, there have been sightings of the Dark Lord Grindelwald in the UK. Due to this circumstance, I give all students which may wish to, the option to leave Hogwarts as soon as today, in case they or their parents fear for their security. Students that wish to remain here may do so, but lessons will also be annulled, since I cannot permit any students to fall behind. Consider this a slightly extended winter break, and please, take care," he states seriously and in a rather dull manner, and then he sits down, coughing a bit.

I turn around to Albus, and I am not the slightest bit surprised to find him trying to suppress his evidently good mood. I immediately feel a strange gratitude towards Grindelwald, who just came to our territory bearing the gift of an additional four days of holiday. Students though look quite confused, torn between joy and concern. Many from the Gryffindor table seem to be particularly worried, which makes sense, since most of them come from traditionally light families, that are probably not on the good side of Grindelwald's books.

Unfortunately, I am not allowed to inform them that Gellert is in fact not after their loved ones, but merely visiting the UK to reconcile with our dearest Transfigurations' Master, who so happens to be his childhood lover.

I turn my attention to the Slytherin table, and my eyes find Tom Riddle sitting quietly, his face indifferent and his eyes blank. I concentrate on him a little harder, straining our magical connection, and find myself certain that he feels fairly pleased about this announcement. When he notices me staring discreetly at him, he briefly establishes eye-contact, and I swear I even see the shadow of a smirk on his face. I sip my tea casually, while whispers echo all around the Great Hall.

"Do you think he could come here? Perhaps I should tell dad to fetch me…" I hear, and then some "Nonsense, the Ministry is simply trying to gain attention again. Why would he ever flee to…".

Also my ear catches a "Well, I think I'll stay. The wards here are better than anything my muggle parents could come up with,", and even "That's amazing! Do you think there will be an epic duel between him and Dumbledore?"_ Well, no, I don't think so_, I reply inwardly and hold back a knowing grin.

"Albus, will you take your leave for the Dumbledore cottage today, then?" I ask politely the middle-aged wizard eating the chocolate bar. I can't afford to ask in a more straight-forward manner, since we are after all in the middle of a large hall. His eyes twinkle, and he takes a big gulp of tea before taking some sort of candy out of his pocket.

"Yes, I guess I will, and I have arranged your stay as well. Here, have a word-activated Portkey. Use the word 'Candycane' to activate it. You and your… snake will be both welcome to spend a fantastic Christmas with me and my… wife," he mumbles merrily, and I nearly choke on my tea, because he really does sound odd when he tries to be formal like that. I take the enchanted lemon drop and place it inside my robes. Soon enough to Great Hall begins to empty, and I also take my leave, following Riddle discreetly.

The sly little Slytherin is intelligent enough to lead me to a fairly empty corridor without turning around even once, where we can finally talk freely.

* * *

"Dumbledore just me a Portkey, and apparently he is already ready for our arrival. If you'd like to leave with me today, just pack a few belongings and meet me at 4 in the abandoned classroom. How is that?" I offer rather light-heartedly, and I look down at the somewhat cool student.

"I am not too sure how it is, but it definitely can't be worse than staying here and slowly boring myself to death," he mutters flatly, and I wonder why he seems to be in a fairly bad mood, considering this should be great news for him. Seeing as we seem to be trying to establish a relation of honesty and trust, I decide to simply ask him about it. This fairly simple method seems to work rather nicely on the young man.

"Are you upset about something?" I therefore ask, sounding as casual as I possibly could. Immediately I can tell that my question annoys him, even angers him a bit, for he takes a minuscule step back in a defensive manner, and his eyes harden. I keep looking at him gently until a portion of his rather irritated coldness leaves, and is replaced by neutrality.

"Nothing important," He finally says; an answer that I welcome, for it actually tells me that something is indeed the matter with him. I wonder briefly what could have possibly upset him during his breakfast in the Great Hall, seeing as in the beginning of it he looked quite fine, and even smirked at me a little.

"It's fine to talk about unimportant things. It doesn't in any way reduce you," I state quite seriously, and I become concern as I watch his jaw clench a bit, and his eyes turning to the side uncomfortably.

"It has nothing to do with you," he says clearly and perhaps a little loudly, but not in a truly hostile way. I try to avoid becoming frustrated by how unwilling he is to confide in me, reminding myself that he has gone through horrible things in his life, and cannot trust people as easily as others can.

"Please, Tom. If it concerns you, it concerns me as well. I've offered myself as your guardian, and therefore it's my duty to help you with things. Even the silly things, like getting your robes torn or getting into a fight with some impulsive Gryffindor," I let him know, and in return he shoots at me a look of absolute contempt. He must find it insulting that I just implied such petty occurrences could be enough to affect him in anyway. Despite the glare, he decides to speak to me, and that's all that matters.

"I got myself into conflict with a rather influential Slytherin witch. Although my base of supporters is much larger than hers, and I can easily wipe her out in a verbal battle, I still don't appreciate that she is now spreading rumours about my living off a rich old muggle as his consort," he spits at me and I see his eyes light up with rising hatred and violence. His words really worry me, because I wouldn't want some nasty incidents of that sort to push him towards his darker traits, and undo much of his progress. I am very troubled by finding Voldemort's intent to kill in the young boy's blue eyes while he talk about his new foe.

"Tom, don't let yourself be affected by such ridiculous gossip. I doubt many students will believe her disgusting claims, anyway. I thought you were doing a fine job completely ignoring the existence of anyone deemed unworthy. By the way, it is miss Black we are talking about here, isn't it?" I observe, and frown a little, calculating the potential harm that such a conflict could cause. Walburga was certainly not well-liked amongst her peers, like Tom was, but she could be truly nasty as times, willing to go very far in order to deal a blow to someone she decides to hurt.

"I will be very happy to fully ignore their filthy existences as long as they don't dare soil my reputation like that! I have worked really hard to build it, you know. When I came here I was a pathetic, unknown and penniless no-one. Some pitied little orphan. It was hard for me to gain the respect I currently have, and I allow no one to take that away from me, let alone that repulsive harpy!" Riddle exclaims furiously, and I am truly taken aback, from I have very rarely seen him talk in such an emotional manner. This rumour seems to strike some sensitive chord within the young boy, and I hope it will not force him to insensible or violent decisions.

"I understand. It must have been very difficult for you to overcome their preconceptions and gain such a large support. Although it does irritate me that you call it a following. Anyway, I'd advise you don't curse her or anything like that; nothing good can come out of that, as appealing as it may seem. Trust me, I'd love to hex her myself. I assure you that I'll find a way to interfere discreetly on this subject, without exposing either of us, alright?" I ask him, a small smile forming on my face, and lay my eyes on him warmly, trying too sooth his ire.

"No. I don't need _help_. I can handle this," he replies in a frigid, venomous tone, and I only realise to late that once more I have accidently insulted him. Thankfully, I know just how to rectify this. I place my hand on his shoulder and offer him a conspiratory look, along with a cruel smirk.

"I know you don't need any help, Riddle. I just really, really want to think of something un-nice to do to her, alright? I am heroic Gryff, an she is a bigoted Slytherin; we are natural enemies," I whisper in his ear, and I cheerfully observe his mistrust melting away. He smirks back at me, and I am surprised to find that he doesn't wince at my touch, nor does he pull away from it.

"Well, if you put it that way…" he observes and his eyes glint darkly as he looks up at me. It occurs to me that I expressed rather unethical and unkind intentions, and I wonder if Hermione would have lectured me about it. I don't think she would have; I still now clearly remember her punching Draco Malfoy in the face.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

After packing a few of my rather ugly and poorly manufactured belongings, I made my way silently to the abandoned classroom, successfully avoiding overly curious peers by taking advantage of the general chaos reigning in the castle. The green man is already there, with a ridiculously small trunk levitating somewhere behind him, and he welcomes me with one of his typical friendly smiles, that actually have ceased to annoy me as much I they used to at first. I now manage to simply treat them as some sort of unfortunate nervous tick.

Potter places his hand inside his robes and moves I around a bit, before actually revealing a lemon drop, and extending it towards me. I give him a long, hard glare full of exasperation and disbelief; what is it with powerful and well-respected wizards having this compulsion related to offering people candy at random points in time? But the green man does not withdraw his surreal offer, and I stare at the lemon drop for a while, utterly perplexed, until it finally dawns on me, and I snort loudly.

"Dumbledore's Portkey, right? Why am I not surprised…" I find myself observing dryly, and the ghost of an amused smile appears on the older wizard's lips before I actually extend my own arm to grab the goddamn candy. I stare at him expectantly, not wanting to have this humiliating situation last any longer, so he finally exclaims "Candycanes", and I experience the truly uncomfortable feeling of being pulled up though a hook in the navel.

We end up crashing in the middle of a large, green field, and the first thing I note is that, fortunately, I am the one the have fallen on top of him, and not other way round. I get back up as swiftly as I can, straightening and dusting my robes hastily, while he takes his time, simultaneously admiring our environment. Which is really a rather bland and unimpressive environment in my opinion, made up mostly by trees, grass and other such commonplace green objects.

"That must be it," he factually notes, a few blades of grass tangled in his dark hair, and he points towards a large and well-preserved albeit humble cottage. I do not find the motivation to formulate a reply, so I simply follow him as he walks towards the rural residence, silent and a little impatient. When we reach the door, the green man lifts his large hand in on attempt to knock it, but the door opens before he manages to do so, revealing the disgustingly friendly face of Albus Dumbledore.

"Why welcome!" he exclaims in a way so gleeful that one would think he just got a visit from the Minister himself, his eyes twinkling in a rather disturbing fashion. "My wards informed of your arrival," he adds, and I inwardly observe that this piece of information is completely useless, for both Potter and I own the necessary number of braincells to have been able to deduce that ourselves. I quietly and gracefully follow Potter inside, and the first thing I notice is that the place is asphyxiatingly full of books, tomes, parchments and scriptures of any kind, which is actually a very pleasant sight, that produces the equally appreciated aroma of worn pages and old ink.

* * *

As we move into the living room, my eyes naturally fall on the middle-ages man sitting on the sofa comfortably, reading rapidly a large, weathered tome on "Obscure uses of human bones in Grecian rituals". I immediately recognise him, despite the rather blurry pictures of him that the Prophet has been making use of lately, to be the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald; but he seems completely oblivious to our presence until Bumble-sore decides to cough a few times, politely.

"Vhat do you vant you crazy old… Oh," the German wizard shouts, and then he drops his book gently and rises up from the sofa, looking quite interested by our sudden arrival. "You vill forgive me, vhen I read I tend to lose avareness of my surroundings. I'm Gellert Grindelwald," He then adds, and he offers his elongated, bony hand. Potter smiles at him and grabs his hand in a strong, manly handshake that lasts quite a few seconds.

"I'm Harry Potter. I gather Albus must have told you about the peculiar circumstances that brought me to your timeline," he presents himself casually, and I stare at the whole scene incredulously, because right in front of my eyes, a mass-murdered and a time-traveler with a hero complex are exchanging pleasantries as if they did not have a few dozens of reasons to hate one another. Then they both turn around and stare at me, causing the experience the sudden urge to flee and go spend a few quiet and rational hours on the Hogwarts library.

"Und you are ze young Tom Riddle, ya? Albus told me of you. Disconcertingly bright and eerily disturbed vas the vay he described you I think," the middle-aged wizard states matter-of-factly and I cringe a bit at the casualty of his unsettling remark. I reluctantly bring my hand up, allowing it to be shaken for a brief moment, before withdrawing it a little too quickly.

"Well, I think it's tea-time. You can all go and sit outside; the weather is lovely these days, strangely enough, in spite of it being the middle of winter. Just get yourselves comfortable under the gazebo, and I'll bring the tea." Dumbledore suddenly suggests, and I find myself, shamefully enough, feeling a wave of gratitude towards the meddling coot for having liberated from the grasp of a truly awkward moment. Thus, the three of us make our way to the garden, and have a sit under that silly gazebo, which I find a little kitsch, climbing flowers and red ivy and all.

"Albus tells me you are a fantastic dueller, ya? Perhaps more poverful than him even. Vill you grant me a friendly duel? I have been dying for a little excitement," Grindelwald suggest to the green man, smiling charmingly, and I can't help but note that in spite of his age, the retired Dark lord is certainly very attractive, with dark azure eyes, a golden skin and a toned frame. I wonder why a man that powerful accomplished and charismatic would be willing to abandon his splendid, grandiose ambitions for the sake of enjoying Albus' tea and company. And then of course I realise just what the dark wizard just offered, and my nostrils flare up with excitement, for if such a duel actually take place it will be an exquisite opportunity for me to both gain knowledge and be entertained.

"Certainly. But no Unforgiveables, right?" Potter replies after a moment of thought, and his answer seems to pleased Grindelwald enormously, for his eyes glisten with a strange kind of greed, and he immediately gets up on his feet. He walks a few feets away from the gazebo, into the field, and turns around at us, flashing a dark, eerie smile.

"Ov course not. Never amongst friends, mister Potter. Shall ve, then?" he states, and suddenly his voice is not light and casual anymore, but low, dangerous growl. The green man gets up and takes his wand out of his holster, placing himself in front of the German wizard; suddenly it doesn't seem all that amusing, and I feel a little uncomfortable, despite my fascination, for their eyes lock intensely and a few sparks of magic crackle in the air.

* * *

They take the typical three steps away from one another, and as soon as they turn around they both fire a few fairly harmless curses, that they easily if not sleepily counter. They are warming up, I deduce.

"_Bombarda_!" screams Grindelwald, but Potter's exceptionally potent _Protego_ seems to completely cancel the effects of the spell, while the green-eyes wizard counter-attacks with a "_Diffindo_". His spell is easily annulled with a quickly cast "_Deletrius_", and Grindelwald's next curse is actually non-verbal. I feel the agitation building up inside of me, recognising that they are about to show their true capabilities, unveil their talent.

I recognise the German wizard's silent curse to be a _Relashio_, its red sparks flying off with impressive speed towards the green man, who simply dodges it physically without really seeming to break a sweat, all while firing two curses of his own. One seems to be an _Animisponia_, a fairly nasty pain spell for a light wizard, really, and the other I don't manage to identify before it hits Grindelwald's loudly shouted "_Protego Obscuris_!".

The dark wizard is smirking widely now, his face glowing with unrestrained joy, and even Potter seems quite elated, which a find a little puzzling, seeing as he seems to generally advocate peace.

"_Draconis Aqualis!"_ the former Dark Lord cries out excitedly, and a huge mass of water bursts out of his wand, forming into the majestic silhouette of a gorgeous dragon and rushing towards Potter. The green-eyed wizard does not scream his counter-attack out loud, but Fiendfyre is not really a spell that one could miss; and thus to two terrible beasts clash brutally, causing steam and ash to fly around our heads. The two elemental spells cancel each other out after a long struggle, and suddenly the air is filled with arrows, and consequently with blades. A _Telum_ and a_ Vesica_ I note, pretty dangerous spells, both of them, although neither duellers seem the slightest bit worried, conjuring themselves protective shields of various kinds with impressive ease.

When Grindelwald casts three _Confrigos_ in rapid succession, followed by a rather brutal _Ossum Diminuendo_, I wonder whether the green man will manage to make it out of this duel without permanent harm, and despite my bests efforts I find myself a little bit worried.

And yet, Potter swiftly casts three _Annulus_ and a _Corpeus Curam_, effectively countering all four spells with amazing ease, instantly earning my absolute respect. He then casts a potent slashing curse that I have never seen before, and gracefully dodges an entrails-expelling curse while conjuring a Potter decoy. The German wizard easily destroys the decoy with a fiendishly powerful _Expulso_, that causes half the field to catch fire, although neither of them actually seem to mind.

When Potter manages to conjure a set of solid pillar out of the soil, imprisoning the dark wizard inside them, I begin to think that he might actually manage to come out of this not only alive, but also victorious. His opponent struggles with the pillars for a while, also trying to protect himself from an incoming wave of other hexes and curses. He tries quite a few spells before actually managing to break his prison down; when he manages, strangely enough, I feel disappointed, realising that I am actually secretly rooting for Potter, despite my fascination with dark wizards.

I almost gasp when a simply _Expelliarmus_, Merlin forbid, throws Potter's wand away from his hands and far into the fields.

And then it obviously dawns on me, seeing as I am not actually thick. The green man can cast wandless magic; he is only trying to give his opponent an impression of eminent victory in order for him to drop his guard, and _dear me_ he is doing a find job at it, morphing his face into a visage of anger and panic. Grindelwald, falling victim to his overly large self-confidence, actually grins widely, his face glowing, and starts approaching Potter triumphantly with his wand extended. When the time-traveler finally smirks, throwing Gellert off guard, it is too late for the German dueler; he does not have the time or space to avoid the wandless Leg-locking curse, and he collapses to the floor, awe-struck. I hold myself back from cheering, and my heart is still beating unhealthily fast from the mounting excitement.

Suddenly, I hear a few steps behind me, and the sound of a tray falling on the floor, and perhaps a few cups breaking.

"Tea-ti… Oh dear."

Around us a couple of trees are still burning, a few newly formed lakes are slowly filling up with mud, and I must admit that Albus' flower bed is not in a very good shape.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: Me Tarzan, you Jane. JK Rowling own, Lydia K-P not own. Simple like cake in the morning.

A/N: Ok, look, dearest readers. I think I am going to slow down my updating speed, because I have been neglecting pretty much everything else in life but this. Please, do not hurt me!

To Pouf: Your comment "Tea time~... Oh dear, I have just stumbled upon a scene of mass destruction because the people I hang out with are apparently incapable of introducing themselves the normal way," is probably funnier than my entire chapter.

To BLCNgyunen: Meh, this is too new to have that many reviews, and the HP fandom is actually beginning to die out a little, too. Thank you for your kind sentiments anyway, someone telling me this has a canon feel to it is perhaps the highest kind of compliment. I hope my story will be up to your expectations later on as well.

To NougatEvolution: There's at least fifteen things I'd like to say on your extraordinairy, amazing analysis, but since they would use up at least some six-hundred words, I think I will shut up instead an just re-read it carefully, while taking notes.

To an anonymous reviewer: I am not sure how old Tom is going to be when the physical slash will actually begin to take place. But I do know that, as you mention, in the early to mid twentieth century, especially in the lower social circles, sexuality at a young age was not uncommon. Seeing as when I was in school most fifteen year olds had already had some kind of sex (that's Europe for you…), and since Tom's a relatively mature person, and quite sexual, too, fifteen is a decent guess.

Cindy Snowflake: No, I have no beta yet. And no, I don't edit my stories. I don't even proofread them, simply because I've no time. Also, English is my third language. So yes, there will be horrible misspellings. But it would be worse. i culd be writin liak dat. ;)

* * *

Chapter 26

Potter's PoV

As soon as I hear the sound of cups hitting the floor I become overwhelmed with anxiety. I turn around immediately, only to face Albus' blank, shocked expression. I get flashes of Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries, and I wonder whether he will try and use this sphere of water spell to drown me in, or if he will unleash that horrible red storm upon us. A long moment passes, all in dear and silence, while I fidget uncomfortably. Grindelwald does not say anything; he non-verbally gets rid of his leg-locking curse though, and gets up looking very apprehensive.

Then, unexpectedly, Albus smiles, and to be honest that scares me even more, for I fear it might be the sadistic kind of smile. It isn't apparently, because when he takes his wand out, instead of hexing us both to oblivion, he casts a locational time-regression spell, returning most of the backyard to its previous state. That's a **locational time-regression spell**. Not only it is insanely complex, it drains as much as three wizarding cores dry and goes wrong seventy percent of the time, it is also a dark spell. Only Dumbledore can manage to express such a terrorising threat while fixing his flowerbed.

Tom looks awe-struck by the use of that particular spell, too, and he raises both of his thin eyebrows, keeping his mouth wisely shut. Gellert Grindelwald dusts his robes nervously, and I suddenly find the fence over there very fascinating.

"Well, there goes the tea. I'll go make some more. Oh, and Harry, it's a good thing what you just did, in a sense. The size of Gellert's ego does need some rectification, you know; defeats build character," The auburn haired wizard observes merrily, and retreats back to the kitchen. I exhale a monstrous amount of air in relief, and behind the German wizard does just the same. We quietly sit down around the garden table, and Tom Riddle is staring at us with unhidden amusement decorating his face.

"Zat vas a cheap trick, mister Potter. It von't vork a second time, since now I know you don't need a vand," Grindelwald suddenly mutters darkly, his eyes nailed on me, and I must admit he doesn't look thrilled by Albus' comment. Yet, he does not actually react too badly to defeat; in fact, he simply broods a little, and occasionally throws annoyed glances at me.

"I am aware of that. May we have a good opportunity to duel again soon, so we may show one another our real potential," I reply and smile widely. My words seem to assuage him, and he stops casting these dark glances at me, which is fairly relieving. Instead, he resumes his rather intimidating upright pose and charisma starts emanating once again from his rather handsome face.

* * *

"So Tom Riddle… Albus tells me you vish to follow a similar path to mine in life, ya?" Grindelwald asks the young boy, and Riddle seems a little taken aback by the very sudden and somewhat blunt question. Oddly enough, he neither nods nor denies it, and I truly wonder whether he actually knows at this point what it s he wants to do with his life. Perhaps I have actually managed to sway him away from his violent and dominant ambitions. He simply looks up at the German wizard with fairly blank eyes, his lips a thin, crisp line.

"Vell, anyvay, don't. Vor people like you or me, ze hardest thing is not to ascend to powver. It's resisting the desire to do so. And I can tell you zat ze hardest thing is alvays ze most revarding," The former Dark Lord continues, and suddenly his eyes have an incredible depth to them, and an endless sadness. He utters these words carefully, slowly, as if they require an effort to say. Perhaps they do; seeing as to mouth them he must first acknowledge his own erroneous choices and his own shortcomings. And although Riddle is ridiculously composed, knowing him as I do I can see the slight arching of his right eyebrow, and I can feel the silent impact of these words on him.

"What if I don't want power. What if I simply don't want to die?" he inquires in return, after a short moment of silence. His voice is low, and I can sense, even though I don't know whether it is because of our signature blending or simply all the time I have spent with the boy, that a strange conflict is taking place inside his soul. An answer is sitting on the tip of my tongue, but this is between Tom and Gellert, so I choose to leave it there.

"Vell, it is different not to die and to live forever. You can survive forever, yes, but live? Ze truth is, Riddle, zat living properly your one life is vorth more than existing aimlessly forever. Vat vould you do vith eternal life, insolent young boy? You could read all ze interesting books, most of vhich you probably already have, ya? You could explore ze most fascinating magical ruins, and zen hunt down some povwerful artifacts. You could unlock ze secrets of magick itself. For zat you vill need, vhat, a hundred years? You vill have zose naturally anyvay. Zen vhat? Vhat?" Grindelwald asks him, his voice steadily rising and his eyes burning with conviction.

"Vor people like us, young Riddle, findind ze right thing to do vith our lives is harder zan finding ze Philosopher's Stone," he concludes, his tone suddenly very quiet. Tom does not seem the slightest bit pleased with all the clichés the other wizard is throwing at him, and he pretty much snorts at him. A very faint smile appears on his lips, not the kindest kind, and he lifts his fingers elegantly to push some of his hair back.

"So what is that… right thing then, Lord Grindelwald?" he asks in a simple, unfeeling manner. I am dying to interfere in their conversation, but once again I hold myself back.

"I am a fucking var criminal on ze run, mister Riddle, how should I know? Ze only thing I do know, is zat ze right thing for me must somehow include Albus, and so I am here to find out. Vhen I understand, I vill tell you," Gellert tells the young student, his eyes considerably softer. His voice is ringing with regret, and a bittersweet smile appears on his face. He looks considerably older now, and Tom Riddle's expression changes. He looks pensive, lost. As usual, Dumbledore arrives just in time to save the day, and I begin to suspect he is able to cast Legillimency from a distance.

Dumbledore approaches us with his usual cheery attitude, and places a large cup of tea in front of each one us carefully. The beverage smells of cinnamon and spice, a very appropriate kind of smell since Christmas is approaching. It also instantly reminds me of Molly Weasley, who used to prepare such seasonal delights for us tirelessly, even during the war.

"It's a secret recipe passed on from father to son. Enjoy," he states, his eyes twinkling playfully, and starts sipping his own tea. I take a sip myself, and I must admit that his concoction is simply brilliant. It has a heavy, warm scent, and fills my mouth with spicy sweetness. The blond wizard next to me takes a few gulps as well, and a huge grin of serene satisfaction spreads all over his face. He then throws a look of unabashed affection and appreciation towards Albus, who is still smiling as merry as ever. Tom on the other hand stares at the cup for a very long time, an odd sort of disbelief on his features, before he finally lifts it steadily towards his lips. Eventually though, even his rigid mouth curves upwards in pleasure.

"This is not bad," the young boy finally concludes rather dispassionately, but Albus, aware of how unusual it is for Riddle to praise others in any way whatsoever, beams at him with pride. The former Dark Lord is the first one to finish his tea, and he uses one long finger to gently prod his cup towards Dumbledore. The Transfigurations' Master obviously catches on, and he non-verbally _Accio_s the kettle from the kitchen, pouring some more tea into Grindelwald's cup.

"Actually, I think its brilliant. Just what I needed, personally," I comment loudly, and offer my older friend a look of endless gratitude. He looks a little smug by now, I notice, and I wonder how a wizard who is rarely ever proud of his amazing magical talent can be so proud of his goddamn spice tea.

* * *

When we eventually retreat into the cottage house, the sun is setting and the winds are beginning to howl. We all sit in the living room, and somehow a heated discussion on the subject of Thestral parts as wand ingredients begins, finding all four of us holding entirely different opinions about them.

"But zey are so whimsical! Vhy vould anyone cant such a ill-tempered vand!" Grindelwald exclaims in exasperation, while Albus tut-tuts us all about our overly noisy behaviour. I shake my head at the German wizard's comment. Having, through Luna, eventually developed a very close bond to Thestrals, I know better than anyone that if handled properly the magical horses and their magical can be a dependable, strong ally.

"Nonsense. Thestrals are not ill-mannered. They simply require to be treated with respect instead of indifference. They do not want to be tools, or helpers. They desire to be allies, and their magic is indeed exceptionally potent is certain fields of casting," I state with gravity, realising that what I am actually defending is Luna's memory, and her endearing strangeness. Gellert snorts at my words, and Riddle lifts an eyebrow gracefully.

"Professor, I fully agree with you than one can't discard Thestral magic simply because of its incredible power. But I don't see how you can treat a wand with respect. A wand is a tool," Riddle responds softly, and I notice that somehow he has been the quietest one of us all, and that yet everytime he speaks, all others hush to listen. His opinion does enrage me a bit though; so cynical and utilitarian. Before I comment on it though, Albus does.

"Wands, my boy, are sentient beings. The soul of a creature lives on through the wand, and it will respond to you depending on your intentions and behaviour. There have been case of wands betraying their masters by refusing to serve in a crucial moment of battle, or wands somehow finding their way back to their rightful owner after being stolen. Your wand has a feather from my Phoenix in it, so I would suggest you treat it with regard. Fawkes is known to be a proud creature," Dumbledore observes, and he sounds a little irritated, perhaps indirectly insulted by Riddle having called his familiar's soul a tool. The young boy, of course, is a Slytherin, knowledgeable in the subject of diplomacy and manners, so he immediately realises his faux-pas.

"I did not mean to offend your familiar, Sir. His powers and character are exceptional, as I have come to know through my wand. It is simply that I don't understand how one can possibly manifest respect towards a wand, since one cannot really communicate with one," he offers politely, and his beautiful face softens so much that even Albus' irritation melts before these lovely blue eyes.

Although I can't help but admire him, really, I do despise how natural acting comes to him.

"Zat is an ignorant remark, young vizard. Vhen you vill grow up, when you will have gone through pain, pleasure, danger und delight vith your vand, you vill realise that one can indeed communicate vith it. One simply has to learn how to listen, ya?" Grindelwald says in a tone that is surprisingly fatherly and fond. Albus smiles profoundly at the man's wise words, perhaps reminded of why he fell in love with him in the first place. Riddle does not say anything. Albus does, though.

"My boy, there is something moving in your robes," he notes casually, but sounding a little disturbed. Of course, I can easily guess what that something is, since I was the one to purchase it in the first place.

"Oh. Yes. This is my familiar, Nagini," the young man murmurs, and hisses at her to come out, opening his robes. Soon enough something twitches in the front of his shirt, and a small reptilian head slithers out between two buttons. She looks around at us interestedly, and greets me with a substantial amount of pleasure.

"Ahhhh. The green man. Nissse to sse you again. Passs my besssst regardsss to your powerful friendsss," she hisses warmly, and her head a little lopsided, and I do find her very endearing. Riddle absent-mindedly runs his fingers up and down her little, elegant head. It occurs to me that this gesture of affection is now coming naturally to Tom, and I find that greatly encouraging. It is a clear indicator that he can learn to share his life with other beings, he can learn to care and be cared for.

"I will sssure tell them. It'ssss nissse to ssse you too. You have grown sssince lassst time," I hiss back in a friendly manner, and she clacks her forked tongue happily, probably eager to grow into a more respectable size. "She greets us all, and offers her best regards," I translate, and then I realise than both Albus and his childhood lover are glaring at me oddly.

_Oh. I had not actually told the middle-aged wizard about my Parseltongue ability._

"No, I am not related to Salazar. Tom Riddle is, and this ability is simply a side-effect of having been his Horcrux in the future," I quickly add, and my explanation seems to satisfy them, although the mention of a human Horcrux agitates Grindelwald quite a bit, and makes Albus cringe. The truth is that I am not actually sure whether my ability to communicate with snakes is an outcome of that Halloween night, or if it is due to the signature blending bond. I decide not to mention the signature blending though, leaving it perhaps for a day during which we can take our time discussing this subject with all the intensity it deserves. It is getting late today.

Riddle doesn't correct me. Smart boy.

"Well, ssse you around. I'll retreat to the warmth. It'ssss very cold out here for a young reptile," Nagini lets me know, and she slithers back inside Riddle's shirt, before his closes his robes over it. He does cast me a questioning look though, and I am sure he will want an explanation on my omission later on. Randomly, I notice that although Riddle has been having the magical viper for less than two weeks, he is already letting use his body as a nest as if nothing were; and I am not sure whether this is adorable or deeply disturbing. Albus disrupts my thoughts, a welcome disruption, acting like his usual deus ex machina self.

"Who wants cookies?"

* * *

Riddle's PoV

"Vell, perhaps it is time for us to retreat to our rooms, ya? I duelled a few dozen Aurors zese days, and a time-traveler, so I am a little vorn out," Grindelwald eventually suggests, his red lips parting widely with a silent yawn, a few golden curls falling into his face. He soon enough brings a few long, bony fingers in front of his mouth to cover a second yawn, and shakes his head a little.

Oddly enough, in spite of his biological age, there is something strangely youthful about the German wizard, and his gentle tanned skin is glowing ever so slightly in the candlelight; Dumbledore is looking as him with open fondness, a tiny smile playing on his lips, and suddenly their affair makes sense to me. It is neither as awkward, nor as distgusting as I would have expected the sight of these two wizards exhibiting an attraction to one another to be. In fact, their quiet affection almost seems natural, unforced, and I for the first time I decide that perhaps Lord Grindelwald has not become an old, senile individual, giving his dreams up out of weakness; perhaps he does know what he is doing.

It also for the first time that I lay my eyes on Dumbledore without prejudice or scorn, and I feel terribly surprised to find that he is actually a sweet and fairly attractive man, with a kind, fragile face and rather impressive, flowing hair. I therefore find myself fairly marvelled at his sight, not because it is such a bewitching sight in itself, but simply because I had somehow managed to never notice this before.

"Indeed you must be," Albus agrees softly with his lover, his eyes no longer twinkling madly, but instead glimmering with gentle care as he slowly rises from his large red armchair. "Harry, Tom, I have prepared the guest room for the two of you. You will find two large and comfortable beds, as well as a large bowl of lemon drops. Shall I take you there?" the wizard then offers, taking a few large steps towards a narrow corridor, and I see the green man nod and stretch his arms in exhaustion. I follow them as they walk through a few strange rooms, filled with ancient tomes, bizarre artefacts and scribbled notes, and note that Dumbledore has enchanted this residence to be larger inside than it appears to be from the outside, a charm which must require a lot of magical skill to cast on such large scale.

"There we go. If you need anything, just yell very, very loud, alright? Goodnight, boys," our host concludes cheerfully, taking us into a large chamber full of colourful trinkets and patchworked chair covers, and then he bids us goodnight with a large, unnatural smile plastered on his face. It is only after my Transfiguration teacher has actually left the room that the current situation sinks in to me; I will have to sleep or bat least pretend to sleep in same room as Potter, I realise, and I immediately get nervous.

* * *

"Which bed do you prefer, Tom?" the green man asks, and I stare at the beds fairly indifferently, experiencing the overwhelming urge to shout that I don't care about the beds themselves, the matter here that they are both in the same room. Instead, I gloomily point at the one closest to the door, for at least that way I can indulge a little my tendency to flee with the sensation of an easily available exit. The green man pins his intense, bright curse-eyes on me, analyzing me probably, and then he turns around and walks towards the other bed quietly.

"May I cast a barrier between the beds?" I ask suddenly, anxiously, feeling a rising sense of panic and the gripping wish to sleep in the living room instead, causing the raven-haired wizard to turn around, looking profoundly concerned. His face is grave and his jaw is clenched as he approaches me.

"I can feel the pangs of your discomfort. What is it you are afraid of?" he asks in a serious tone, but also in a way that is not actually forceful, but instead steady and encouraging; I slap myself mentally for forgetting he'd be able to tap into an emotion that intense on my part. Gaining absolute control over myself, I stop fidgeting like a pathetic babe and I lift my eyes to meet his, biting my lower lip a little and deciding to be honest with him. Better that than tell him something which might contradict the vibes he is actually receiving from me, and thus give him reason to distrust me and be wary of me.

"It is likely I will experience vivid nightmares, and I wouldn't want to wake you up," I hurriedly mutter, feeling a little nauseous at the sound of my own deplorable weakness, but he doesn't seem satisfied with my answer, staring at me expectantly. "I actually wouldn't want you to witness me being in such a state," I add flatly, glaring at him defiantly. There you go, Potter; I am certain you thought I wouldn't be able to say that out loud.

Indeed, he looks mildly surprised at my honest albeit cold confession, and he places his callused hand on my shoulder, a bittersweet smile painting his handsome features.

"Tom. I will be having nightmares myself. And since I aim to gain your respect, it will be fairly unflattering for you to see me whimpering and twitching. But if damaged is what we are, there is no point in pretending otherwise. All we can do is place a bet on who will wake up screaming first," he explains in an inappropriately casual manner, and yet there is a consuming warmth is his eyes that makes his words strong and believable. Finding myself at a loss for words, I simply stand there, silent and unmoving, my whole body compulsively focusing on the strange weight of his hand resting on me.

"I bet on myself," I finally manage to whisper, and putting into the gesture an incredible, inhuman effort, I even manage to imitate the ghost of a smile, placing it on my empty visage. After scrutinising my face for a few seconds, he ends up removing his limb from my shoulder, and offering me a small, understanding nod, he wishes me a good night.

Despite the green man's reassuring words, I do not achieve the peace of mind necessary for my consciousness to drift to sleep. Instead, dreading the possibility of making a pitiful fool out of myself, of appearing weak and helpless before his eyes, I keep myself forcefully awake, following mentally his deep, deep breaths. I think of a thousand different things, but above all I passionately wish for the morning to come as early as possible.

And suddenly the sound of a body twirling inside the sheets reaches me, and then a few whimpers, and even a pained moan. I freeze.

I get up silently and move towards my future guardian's bed, casting to very faint _Lumos_, trying to discern his features without waking him up. And there it is, his beautiful, strong, masculine face, his hard bone structure, all contorted is a mask of pain and terror; the sight unsettles my profoundly, shakes me to a degree I could have not expected. And instead of placing this wizard lower to me eyes, the vision of his vulnerability and the sound of his soft whimpers places him higher, for he is not invincible, he is not perfect; he is as flawed, as hurt as I am, only so, so much stronger.

It's alright to break sometimes, Harry Potter tells me, despite being asleep and unable to talk to me.

Then he screams, still without waking up, and I immediately decide that I can not stand apathetic before the discomfort he is experiencing; these nightmares that my own future sins are the roots of. Hesitantly, I bring my hand forward and shake him, until eventually his green eyes flick open with a violent motion, and a gush of air rushes out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?" I ask, and although my voice echoes somewhat cold, somewhat disinterested in the large room, I am sure he'll understand.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter. It's me. Me! No, wait… don't take me to the padded room! Wait! She owns him, not me! I'll be a good girl now… Not the jacket! Noooooo…

A/N: I am currently really damn sick, my nose running like Forrest Gump, and my head about to explode. Also, I can't talk. At all. I'm going to try and write nonetheless, but I am not sure what will come out.

You will forgive me, but today I will not reply to individual reviews, because I just want to get over with writing and go back to bed. Just wanted to point out that faithful reviewers are god's gift to the author, and that I absolutely love you.

Even those of who read the whole story in one day on a random whim seem to leave reviews lately, and that makes me truly happy, because really, in this fic I'm pretty much pouring my soul out.

Also, I have to warn you, this chapter might disappoint some in the sense that all this wonderful progress made my Tom will be countered by some eventual regression. Life ain't all sweets and roses.

* * *

Chapter 27

Potter's PoV

_**It's the Forbidden Forest, and I am walking around desperately, in search of my lost friends. From a distance, I hear the distorted scream of Ronald Weasley, and it's inciting me to walk faster, feeling a sensation of panic rising in my chest. Then all I hear is the sound of my own panting, as I run through the dark, hostile woods.**__** When I reach the clearing, it is too late. Lifeless bodies are nailed onto the surrounding trees, mutilated, rigid, and I immediately recognise Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna… A wave of grief drowns my soul, throwing me to my knees, even though I know that this is just a dream. It's just a dream, and I have mourned my loved ones too many times before, anyway. So why is it still so excruciating?**_

_**In the middle of the clearing stands a cloaked form, its back turned to me, tall and ominous.**__** The texture of the surrounding magic is enough for me to recognise the man behind the blowing cloak, even the deepest darkness of the night. **_

_**"Voldemort," I state flatly, all feeling gone from my heart, all pain hidden. At the sound of his name he turns around slowly, a large, predatory smile on his face, and his head is even a little lopsided, in amusement. **_

_**"Harry. Did you come here to die?" he hisses at me, almost tenderly, and his disfigured features glow in sadistic enjoyment.**_

_**I don't even have the time to formulate an answer, for the reptilian wizard leaps forward to me, throwing a wandless spell onto my chest and thus taking me down to the ground. I roar in pain as the skin on my abdomen splits and drenches my robes with fresh, warm blood. I lie there, breathing heavily, and I decide not to fight back at all, for I know it is a dream, and only wish to wake up as fast as I possibly c**__**an. So I simply take the pain as it comes, like a patient martyr, and I try to ignore the sharp agony of my body, and his low, poisonous hisses. **_

_**"You will never be free of me. You may not be my Horcrux anymore, but you still carry me within you. The idea of me will always survive through you, my Harry," he explains between Crucios, almost gently.**_

_**And it is these words that hold more horror than all the blood and all the violence in the world, for they ring terrifyingly true and strong in the quiet darkness of the forest. And this is when I scream, my mind burning and aching with the need to escape this nightmare, and forever forget Voldemort's terrible claim. A hand reached out for my shoulder, shaking me, and I briefly wonder if this is some new game of his, before finally opening my eyes.**_ The pale face of Tom Riddle stands three feet away from me, impassionate as always, like the visage of a statue.

"Are you alright?" he whispers detachedly, and yet his eyes are pinned on me, as if the answer matters. I take a few deep breaths, still recovering from the livid dream, and sit up. My entire body is humid with sweat.

"Not really," I reply casually, trying to shake away the lingering emotions of fear and agony. "But I win the bet, and that's quite comforting," I add, in a weak shot at humour. The boy stares at me in silence, and I wonder what he is really seeing at this moment.

"How come you woke me up?" I ask suddenly, for I honestly find it a little unlike the young man to put a halt to someone's agony out of compassion. And equally unlike him to do anything without a good motive. As the words leave my mouth, he averts his gaze, and his jaw tightens a bit. When he lifts his icy blue eyes back onto mine, his expression is changed in a way I can't describe.

"Isn't that what you'd do, if it was me?" he says, absent-mindedly, and I find his reply very evasive. This is Tom Riddle, and he doesn't feel the moral obligation to reciprocate a theoretical act of kindness. What is the answer he is not telling me? Instead of it, he gives me a question. "Was it me, in your dream?" he asks, and once again his voice is strangely cool and uniform, almost mechanical.

"It was Voldemort," I mutter after a while, avoiding to equate the boy with the Dark Lord, but unwilling to completely separate them. Once again a strange tension builds up on Riddle's face, for he sees how cleverly I have avoided making, or not making for that matter, the connection between him and my nemesis. Was it perhaps that he wanted me to draw the line between the boy and the monster? Did he need to hear "No"? Perhaps I should rectify my answer a bit.

"It was not you. At least not necessarily. Not unless you choose it," I decide to add, and that seems to please him a little more. The tension eases a bit, and his eyes soften. It is extremely odd that he'd feel the insistent desire to hear he is not Voldemort for the second time this week, but it can be but a good sign.

_Unless it's not a good sign. _

_Unless, deep down, he already feels himself having become irrevocably corrupted, and needs to hear me say otherwise for that very reason._

* * *

"Have you slept at all?" I inquire then, suspicious to find him clothed in his robes, with his hair still carefully brushed to the side. He doesn't answer, and I obviously take that as a confirmation of my suspicions. "You should," I state, softly. Somehow, I realize I shouldn't have said that, because his eyes turn cold and narrow.

"I am afraid I am not as reconciled with my nightmares as you are, sir, since my self-obliviation had kept them suppressed until you so kindly removed it," he spits venomously, glaring at me for a long, irritated moment before turning his back and walking towards his side of the room. Immediately, I understand my mistake. What I actually did by having him admit he avoiding sleep, was forcing him to acknowledge that in certain areas, he is weaker in character than I am. No doubt he wouldn't be pleased about that. It's so incredibly complex, communicating with Tom Riddle. Once again, I find myself trying to correct a faux-pas.

"When I was your age, I often screamed even during my classes due to the vividness of my visions. You are very composed and strong for a wizard as young as you are, Tom. I am certain you will soon become immune to these nightmares," I offer, getting off my bed and taking a few steps towards the young man. On his pale face I can sense two conflicting emotions struggling for control. In the end instead of a smile, I get a sneer.

"Trying to appease me?" the boy mumbles bitterly and perhaps even mockingly, his eyes void and hostile. Being an impulsive Gryffindor, I have to put a lot of effort into not get angry over his rude, condescending comment. But since a verbal confrontation of the hateful kind would not help either of us, I manage to keep myself from saying anything sharp. Instead I grab Riddle's cool hand strongly, and offer him an intense, commanding stare.

"I am trying to help you, you stubborn prat. I thought we were past establishing that," I tell him, stressing each word carefully and tensely, and he nearly flinches. In the end though, his features seem to somewhat relax, and surprisingly enough, he does not pull his hand away.

"Alright," he eventually whispers, in a tone so soft that it unsettles me, with even his eyes warming up, if just a bit. I let go of his hand, and he returns to his bed, swiftly transfiguring his robes into a white nightgown. I almost hear myself draw a sharp breath at how seraphic he looks. I think to myself that I'd have to catch him casting a goddamn Horcrux to manage to believe such a delicately beautiful being could be capable of such mind-boggling evil.

"Goodnight," I say, casually, and we sleep. Neither of us wakes up until dawn.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

When I wake up in the morning, the green man is already up, staring at the wide plains out of the window, melancholy painted on his face. At the sound of body moving, he immediately turns around and smiles at me; I have to admire his reflexes, really, as they must be product of more than a few years of living dangerously. Surprisingly, I feel rather invigorated and in a strangely good mood, so I go as far as returning the smile before I actually get my feet to the ground and assume an upright position. I quickly reverse the transfiguration placed on my nightgown, and I cast a few other fairly useful spells on my hair and teeth; appearing unkempt is appearing vulnerable in my books, and that's something I don't allow.

"Albus is waiting for us down at the kitchen. Should we?" Potter suggests merrily, tearing his eyes away from the window with a bit of difficulty, although I myself find the landscape outside to be horrible commonplace and dull. I nod at his suggestion, and follow him quietly as he walks through the trinket ridden rooms of Dumbledore's colourful residence, my mind still replaying the events of out late night confrontation.

Taking offense so easily had been rather immature on my part, and certainly not very flattering or even really reasonable; the green man is a Gryffindor, and he is not the kind to harm his opponents in slow, indirect ways. Had he wanted to harm me in any way, he already would have acted upon it. Thus I can deduce he genuinely means to be of assistance, and it is not very strategically sound to alienate someone who has proven themselves a rather invaluable ally; I should try and keep that in mind.

"Good morning youngsters!" the Transfigurations' Master greets us cheerfully, looking as absurdly twinkly in the early morning as he does during any other time of the day, and I briefly wonder if he is suffering from some ocular disease. He and the green man exchange a few happy pleasantries, and I note that they seem to be rather close; and yet Potter treats the other wizard with a respect greater than their current relationship could result to, leading me to the conclusion that the auburn haired man will probably become a very venerable mage in the future.

Grindelwald is sitting behind the kitchen table with a big mug of coffe in front of him, and he surely does not appear entirely awake, sniffling his nose a bit and rubbing his eyes. Fumble-door, the observant old coot, notices me looking at him, and beams brightly while twirling around towards the whistling kettle.

"Gellert is not really a morning person, I am afraid. It shows, does it not?" he comments gleefully, casting an affectionate glance at the sleepy wizard, who lifts his head a bit in an effort to look angry, but fails quite badly at it. Since this wizard was slaughtering German Aurors just a few weeks ago, I wonder if Dumbledore is perhaps more than simply an accepting, open man; I would go as far as calling me an irrationally forgiving naïve moron, had I not seen the deep respect Potter holds for him. Maybe I they simply know something that I don't, something from the future that redeems the former Dark Lord in their eyes.

"Tea or Coffee?" the cheery professor asks us, holding two kettles up. One of them is red and has little unicorns drawn on it, while the other one is blue, and holds the picture of phoenix being reborn.

"The one without the unicorns," I mumble, while Potter explains something about abhorring coffee and having developed some sort of tea addiction due to everyone constantly offering him tea. When we are done with sipping warm liquids and munching cake with icing in the shape of little stars, which I am finding myself unfortunately forced to admit didn't taste half as distressing as it looked, Gellert Grindelwald looks a little better.

"Should we go out for a walk? The weather's surprisingly mild," Albus Dumbledore offers at some point, and while the rest of us are done with breakfast, he is still occasionally stuffing items with too much sugar on them into his mouth with small and swift movements.

"That'd be great!" Potter agrees, and I arch my eyebrow a little at his inexplicable enthusiasm, wondering whether he has some sort of cunning plan involving a rural promenade. Even the German wizard agrees rather happily, adding something about fresh air helping him wake up, and then al three of them are staring straight at me, expecting some sort of confirmation. Succumbing to peer pressure, I nod.

* * *

Outside, the climate is indeed not entirely unpleasant, although, to be fully honest, I am the kind of individual that would rather spend their entire day reading in a cold, humid dungeon than be forced to have frivolous fun in the middle of blooming fields of flowers. Despite that, I find that I am not entirely annoyed by this walk, and I also discover my eyes flicking over to the green man, who seems to have an affinity for the sun, even the hard, distant winter sun. He is smiling widely. His skin is substantially more tanned than mine, and indeed the morning sun's light flatters its golden tone, making him appear right into his element.

Even Nagini asks permission to stick her head out of my robes and absorb some sunlight, and I wonder whether I am the only individual here that does not find any sort of exceptional pleasure in pretending to photosynthesize. My thought are disrupted by Grindelwald diving suddenly to the ground, a small shout escaping his lips, before he starts babbling in an agitated manner.

"Albus, come here! I think zis is an _Akkonia Celestonus,_ over here! Look as ze delicate mauve petals, und here, ze thin transparent stem, ya? Ze leaves, too. Zey have zis, how do I put it, prickly texture!" he starts explaining, and I draw a sharp breath, for if this fairly insane man has actually found a real Akkonia, he could probably buy himself a house next to Dumbledore's just be selling it in parts as a potions' ingredient. We all gather around the tiny, fragile flower, and the auburn-haired wizard moves his glasses around a bit, squinting his eyes in an effort the identify the flower, an effort from which I decide to spare him.

"I am rather certain this is an _Akkonia Celestonus,_" I confirm, and then, when I notice Potter's somewhat confused expression, I decide to elaborate. "A magical plant closely related to the Aconitum family, a flora genus known to the wide public as Monkshood. Only the Akkonia is an inherently magical blossom, and despite belonging to the Magnoliophyta division, there is only ever one blossom per Akkonia plant. From it can be extracted a poison structurally related to common aconite, but immensely more potent, and also damaging to one's magic. The celestal akkonite, as the poison is known, is said to be able to bring down a Dragon," I explain patiently, and he nods, looking understandably impressed.

"Magnificent!" Gellert Grindelwald exclaims, and he plucks the fragile blossom greedily, in such a careless, unrefined manner that I openly cringe. The four of us spend the consequent four hours heatedly discussing the proper method of harvesting potions' ingredients, and somehow Potter seems to be very rigid and strict about such matters, if not downright conservative. He is in fact constantly mumbling something incoherent about how "Snape would kill us if he heard that...", but I decide that is perhaps better not to ask.

Thus we keep on walking and conversing upon various academic subjects, with Dumbledore managing to ardently disagree with his lover on every single topic chosen, and Potter turning out to be more knowledgeable than I would have expected him to be. Although, he does always attribute his information and opinions to this young woman called Hermione he had once told me about, and when increasingly obscure matters are discussed, he openly admits that although Hermione has explained to him how these work, he has absolutely no idea how _she_ found out.

It is while I express my opinions on Goblin spellwork that the sound of loud, enraged barking puts a halt on our discussion, for suddenly a group of large, rapid dogs jumps out from behind a green fence. I barely have the time to notice that they seem to be aiming for me before they are already but a few feet away, and looking fearsome. From a distance, I head Potter's scream, and a few spells fly before me, throwing all the dogs back, most unconscious. All but one, and before I manage to properly aim my own wand at the swift, aggressive beast, I already experience the feeling of sharp teeth sinking into my left hand.

The feeling of teeth sinking into my hand.

* * *

A crunching sound is heard, somewhere far away from me. I sense my flesh being invade, my skin ripped, but no pain comes to me, for the sensation is alien, as if this is happening to someone else. Teeth into my hand.

I look down, and instead of a dog, I see a little boy with glassy eyes. Mad eyes. Erik. He's trying to eat me, I realise, my eyes widening in terror.

The feeling of teeth sinking into my hand.

I have to survive, I think to myself, and I feel my trembling right hand reach into my robes, taking out my wand. I'm sorry Erik, I have to survive. I can't let you eat me.

"_Avada Kedavra. Avada Kedavra. Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra_!"

* * *

Potter's PoV

Tom Riddle stands in the middle of the field, his left hand soaked in blood, surrounded by the corpses of six large dogs. His body is shaking, and his lips are moving incontrollably. The boy's eyes seem to be seeing things that aren't there, and his face is distorted with horror. I turn around, and I see Albus and Gellert, both seeming shocked and nauseated by the sight of a young boy repeatedly casting an Unforgivable with such eerie ease, but neither willing to intervene. They understand that this is about me and Tom.

And right now Tom Riddle seems to be in some sort of trance, I notice, waves after waves of violent convulsions causing his form to tremble. Then, of course, it dawns on me. The sensation of teeth digging into his left hand. It must have acted as a trigger, forcing him to experience anew the cannibalistic attempt against him. Realisation hits. This would explain, even if it wouldn't forgive, his irrationally savage, murderous reaction. Carefully, I take a few steps towards the boy.

"Tom, there's no well. You are here, with Gellert, Albus and me. It's alright, Tom," I attempt, but it comes out sounding like cheap drama film rubbish, trite bullshit, and the young wizard does not even cast a glance at my general direction. I take a few more steps.

"It's all over Tom. You're outside now," I mutter weakly, the sight of the incredibly beautiful boy, pale like death itself and soaked in blood shaking me rather badly. But this is not the moment to feel like a helpless kid once more, so I brace myself a take another few steps. This time he turns around to me, and although he pins his eyes onto me, he doesn't seem to really see me. His eyes are void, and soulless.

A teenage psychopath having a reactive psychotic break; best served after lunch. Fuck.

"How do I_ know _that? Perhaps I have been in there all this time. Hogwarts, you… All hallucinations. Wizards don't exist, even children know that. I am still there, rotting away, am I not? This is a fantasy. This is probably some kind of defensive mechanism..." the young boy murmurs, his voice sometimes high, sometimes low, breaking every couple of words. He looks downright insane now, smiling softly at me now, his eyes glinting red. He points his wand at me. "I don't want to die"

"Tom... Please," I manage to whisper, my heart aching at his suffering. I have always been terribly compassionate, Morgana damn me.

"I'm still there, dying, you know... You are all lying to me. You don't actually exist. If I kill you, nothing will happen," he whispers very gently, almost tenderly, and I can't help but wonder if the few feet that separate us will be enough for me to avoid a killing curse.


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: They don't mean anything legally, you know. I insert one just to honour the long-standing tradition. And because I was reading a few witty ones on TVtropes, and got jealous.

A/N: Incredible amounts of gratitude are felt towards the regular reviewers such as Barranca, IchigoPudding, PhoenixfromtheFlames, NougatEvolution etc, etc. No, I won't write them all down, I will be cheating myself into a better word count if I do. Questions in reviews are always welcome, and will usually be answered swiftly. But seriously, without a few half-decent reviews, it's hard for a writer to find the motivation to continue after hitting the 80-90k words milestone. So please, R&R!

To Pouf: Why would there be rabid dogs around? Well, we are the mid 20th century, first of all, and the disease was fairly common back then. Also, we are in a rural area, where many peasants used to keep groups of dogs around their fields to chase wild beasts and thieves away. In Greece this practice is still fairly common in isolated rural areas. These dogs tend to be semi-wild, and usually their owners encourage their violence. It's the animal version of the hillbilly rifle. You know… "Get outta myyyyy property!"

Anyway, on with the actual material…

* * *

Chapter 28

Potter's PoV

And suddenly years of intense training and war experience kick into me, and my eyes scan the scene as if it were a battlefield, as if Tom was a target. An invisible line takes shape inside my mind, a few feet before me. It is the line that according to my, automatic due to the great amount of experience, calculations distinguishes the area inside which I can dodge an Avada from the area inside which I can't. And whilst, despite my relative proximity to Riddle, I am actually standing in the safe zone, I am only a couple of steps away from leaving it.

His wand is still pointed towards me, and although it is shaking a little, it isn't faltering.

The blue eyes stare at me with a demented sort of softness. In the very corner of my field of vision stand Albus and Grindelwald, petrified. I am not surprised by my future mentor's lack of interference; he always had an incredible amount of faith in me. I used to think him reckless for having allowed me to risk my life so many times while I was still a child, but it is only later that I realized he simply _knew_ I would persevere. Although he never explicitly states it, I realised that he must have had the ability to sense quite a few things concerning the future. Right now he is still quite young, and I don't know if he has already acquired that skill. But his gentle eyes show no fear for my life, which is fairly encouraging.

"Tom Riddle… Lower your wand. Be rational. If you are still in the well, then you have no wand anyway. So what is the purpose of pointing an imaginary one towards me?" I try to reason with him, my voice now stern, authoritative. Unexpectedly, these words work better than my previous ones. It is both disturbing and relieving that even when he is so far gone that appealing to his emotions no longer has any effects, appealing to his logic will. He looks a somewhat confused now, and his hand trembles a little more.

"Tom…" I begin, and I considering the possibility of suddenly casting some non-verbal spell to knock him out. And yet, as fast as some curses can be, I am certain he'd have the time to throw an Avada at me, which I would not be able to dodge as fast if I am still in a casting position. Then it occurs to me that perhaps I should follow my policy of truth. "Will you let me cast a Patronus without reciprocating with a killing curse, please?" I ask slowly and softly, and take another step towards the young boy, crossing the imaginary line separating safety from a possible death.

He looks a little surprised. Perplexed even. His eerie, void smile slowly fades, and his eyebrows gather closer, creating a pensive wrinkle.

"A Patronus. You're trying to trick me. A Patronus cannot bypass death. It cannot negate decay. You're giving me false hope, like the comforting vision you are," he mutters, and his hand is stable now. His eyes are cold and sharp, while his beautiful face darkens and hardens, turning into a mask of anger. I suddenly regret having come so close to Tom Riddle that, although I could easily shield myself against any other spell, since the killing curse can only be avoided through a physical movement, I would have no chance against it. And yet, I am not truly scared, for something other than my mind assures me it will all be alright.

"Tom, would you be able to think about something incredible pleasant right now? Pleasant enough to produce a Patronus?" I inquire, an idea forming inside my mind. He doesn't reply, but the answer is written all over his features.

"Well then, if I can, that will prove I am not simply a inside your mind. That I am a separate consciousness. Right?" I continue, hoping to once again appeal to his rational brain and stall him.

"No. This requirement involving the invocation of a Patronus is imaginary in itself after all, isn't it?" he replies factually, and then he starts chuckling a little, as if he is proud of his conclusion. Now I am actually worried. He keeps giggling sickly, until there are tears under his shining eyes. Tears of fear and desperation.

"I refuse to die," he states with demented finality, and since he is still losing quite a bit of blood, his visage is getting paler by the second. He fully extends his arm, his wand approaching me dangerously. What is there left in him that I could possibly appeal to, where reassurance, affection and reason all fail? As a Gryff would do, I improvise, my options running out.

"Why would you refuse to die? You deserve to. You killed Erik. And since then you have been wanting to kill many others as well, is that not true? Deep inside, do you not long to kill again? Are you not a monster, a murderer? I think it is for the best, if you die," I counter him in a clear, confident voice, and I bring myself to glare at this lost kid as I would glare upon my parents' murdered, my despicable foe; with disgust and accusation. His hand shakes worse than ever before, and a tempest rises behind his eyes.

"That's right. I killed him. But I had to. You must understand that I didn't do it for pleasure, or out of any kind of greed. I simply had to. He was… he was trying to…" Riddle starts, and finally I seem to have at least partially broken through his temporary paranoia. So I press on in the same direction.

"That's just excuses and we both know it. Another kid would have pushed him away, yelled at him, perhaps even hit him. You went in for the kill. You cannot deny that. You have that in you, the intent to kill, and it is a fact you cannot hide from yourself. So why is it that you would not deserve to die?" I insist, my voice a little louder with time, a little more intimidating. And it occurs to me that the reason this method is working, is because I am voicing out his own conscience, thus amplifying it, and tapping into an already existent pool of guilt. He quivers.

"It's true, isn't it. Even according to a fairly low set of moral standards, I probably shouldn't exist," he lets me know, his tone sad but level-headed and oddly rational. "But you said that it's still possible for me to become something different. That I don't need to be Voldemort. Didn't you say so?" he adds, and he looks hurt, as if I deceived him.

"I did. I believe that you can make yourself into someone that deserves to stand here, alive, instead of Erik. So lower your wand, Riddle, and prove me right, damn you," I whisper intensely, my stare never leaving him. His perfect features morph into a sea of endless melancholy and regret, his eyes once again humid and hazy. I do not know exactly what is going through his brilliant, damaged, twisted mind, but he seems to be sobering up and regaining his composure. Who would have thought it that he hides so much guilt behind his cool, ruthless exterior, I note to myself, and feel a sudden surge of affection for the sick boy. Eventually, he lowers his wand.

"Can you not cast a blood-clotting spell on my hand? I'm getting a little dizzy from the blood loss," the young man finally mutters, and his wand drops out of his slowly opening fingers. I plunge just in time to catch his cold body as he collapses to the ground.

* * *

Albus and Gellert rush towards us hastily, and the auburn-haired wizard casts a few quick medical spells on the boy, as well as a scanning spell. After having seen Hermione use that one time after time, I have learned to interpret its results as well, and I can see that the boy is infected with the horrible disease. Thank Merlin for Albus' boundless armory of light spells and his profound medical knowledge, I think to myself as he starts casting an overly complicated and very specific healing charm.

_At least I will not have to worry about the actual rabies._

Exchanging but the brief, dry words necessary to communicate, the three of us agree to Apparate back to the Dumbledore cottage. I lift the young Slytherin, but much to my surprise, I do not feel comfortable placing him over my shoulder and carrying him the way I would generally carry a fallen comrade. Instead I place both arms beneath him and bring him up to my chest, holding him much like a gentleman is supposed to hold an injured lady. He just feels too light, too aristocratic to be crudely placed over the shoulder, I guess.

We apparate away from the fields, all while I keep repeating to myself that despite this ugly incident, there is certainly hope for him. I truly believe it, too.

After Albus and I bandage his hand, we decide to place an hourly sleeping charm on him, because we deem necessary that he rests and regains his strength, both in body and mind. Although I guess he'll be alright, at least physically, I feel flooded with concern on how he will react, upon waking up, to his own moments of folly and violence. And therefore, in spite of both older wizards talking to me, my eyes somehow refuse to leave the sleeping boy, breathing heavily on the couch.

"You handled this masterfully, dear boy. I am truly glad to have witnessed the strength of the newborn bond between the two of you acting even during such difficult moments," Albus states, and he is neither cheerful nor paternal. He is simply relieved, and thoughtful.

I nod at his general direction and smile a little, but I can't say I share his views. I am truly not sure about the way I handled this entire incident, and I am certainly not confident about Riddle's attachment to me. He did seem very capable of killing me a few moments ago. Of course, he is past making such a decision consciously. I was incapable of doing that even back then when he still felt great animosity towards me, back then at the Chamber of Secrets. And yet, deep inside his tortured subconscious, Voldemort survives, residing within Riddle's most hideous memories.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

When I open my eyes I my mind is numb and blank, and my head hurts so much that, as soon as I straighten my neck, I immediately wince. My blurry surroundings slowly regain their normal detail and accuracy, allowing me to identify my environment as Albus Dumbledore's living room in Godric's Hollow. Then the message of the sound of footsteps reaches my overwhelmed and exhausted brain circuits, and I turn my head in time to see the green man rushing to my side. He appears to be terribly worried, which I initially don't understand at all, for I can't recall anything even remotely worrisome having happened recently. Then the Transfigurations' Master and the German wizard both enter my field of vision, and I am surprised to discover a similar expression of concern and gravity on both of their faces; something which in Bubble-war's case is disconcerting due to being rather unusual.

_Whatever happened?_ I try to put pressure onto my mind, squeezing out the missing information, for the last thing that I can clearly remember is the four of us walking in a large, green field.

And suddenly the images, merciless and raw, attack me, filling in the odd holes of my memory and making me flinch.

The dogs. The sensation of teeth sinking into my flesh. The killing curse, again and again, coming out of my lips. A decent into temporary madness, as I become desperately trapped inside my mind. Harry Potter, approaching me even as I am about to cast against him. A breakdown. Blood. Tears. It all comes back, and I find myself absolutely horrified by the events, and equally fearful concerning their possible consequences, for I realise that I have uttered a bunch of Unforgivables, that I have murdered a few animals and, worse of all, I have fully betrayed the green man's trust. A terrible wave of disgust and self-contempt crushes me; I have acted in the most unacceptable, pathetic, dishonourable way possible, and proven myself to be a slave of my own trauma and cruel streak.

Potter kneels next to the couch, his eyes never leaving my face, and I concentrate, despite my emotional distress and intense headache, on detecting his feelings through the appearance of his facial muscles and through own very own magical connection. Strangely, I do not find anger, coldness and dislike. I do discover disappointment, of course, but mostly I see sadness, protectiveness and concern; emotions which cause me to be relieved but also confused. My lips part as I attempt to formulate some sort of sentence, explaining how ashamed I feel about this entire incident, and how I truly dislike this part of myself that is so weak, so desperate, so crudely violent and so deranged. Instead, a single sound comes out, strangled.

"I…"

"I know. And I know just where all of this came from. So don't look so terribly anxious. Very little blame is placed on you," Potter replies, immediately identifying the intentions behind my failed attempt at making a statement. Once more I am a little shocked by his accurate understanding of how I feel, and I wonder whether this is due to the actual effects of the signature blending, or whether it is simply a trait of his personality. Either way, his words are welcome, although I do note the difference between "very little blame" and "no blame". Of course, he is right in deducing that I am partially to blame for this shameful incident, for if he were in my position, he would not have let his demons take over him so easily, and command his actions.

_I must truly make of it my absolute priority, to harness this vicious violence of mine, as to channel it creatively and tastefully, instead of making a fool out of myself like that._

He must have seen me frown a little, pained, for he lifts his large hand and places it on top of mine; my right hand of course, for my left hand has been carefully placed on a small pillow, and is rather heavily bandaged. Even though I generally despise when people attempt to offer some kind of psychological support, and even though I am not very keen of physical contact, I do not withdraw my hand at all. I am simply too exhausted and too troubled to do so, and I am also so deeply in need of reassurance right now, that I cannot deny the appeal of his warm skin against mine and his silent acceptance of my evident character flaws.

"You should rest. We'll talk about it later," he eventually murmurs, and he is very serious and pensive, causing me to automatically feel bad about having completely destroyed his previously carefree, joyous mood. The truth is though, that I so not have any desire to fall back to sleep or simply lie here passively, for I am sure that if he leaves me alone once more, various disturbing thoughts and irrational fears will begin to torment me.

"I am actually a little peckish. I thought perhaps if you could allow me to prepare myself a little something to…" I begin, but for the second time in a row, I am interrupted; this time it is by Albus Dumbledore, mother hen extraordinaire, who mumbles "I'll prepare something then, yes?" and rushes to the kitchen while beaming at me.

I am absolutely bewildered by the fact that although I pretty much lost all self-control and spiraled down into a mindset of delusions and violence, they are treating me a bit like a child that just had his tonsils removed. Actually, this is not entirely correct. I **can** discern their concern and troubled thoughts; perhaps they have decided that it is better I discuss my meltdown alone with Potter, and after I have fully regained my mental clarity, which would be a logical decision, really.

"I'll go help the old coot a bit. Is that ok?" the green asks me, and I can feel my elegant eyebrows disappear most unelegantly into my hairline as I stare at him icredulously, for he is actually asking my permission to leave my side. What did he expect a possible answer to be? "No, it isn't, so please stay here and hold my hand forever"? But he seems unwilling to move away from the proximity of my couch without some sort of statement that asserts that I will survive the separation, so I eventually decide I might have to formulate one.

"I'll be fine," I say simply, and I try to keep my voice from sounding as cold as it would have, because I do not wish to worsen my relationship with the Potter even further, since I do not really want him to withdraw his guardianship offer and send me back to that disgusting, base man. He gets up swiftly and, casting a last worried glance towards me, he walks towards the kitchen, leaving alone in the living room with the former Dark Lord. I close my eyes for a few seconds, feeling my headache becoming nearly unbearable, and breath slowly and heavily.

* * *

"From vat I have heard from Harry, zat individual, Voldemort, had an exceptionally veak character. He vas a constant victim of his own phobias, obsessions und delusions, apparently, vasting completely his bright mind und magical talent on incredibly stupid tasks, ya? I don't condone ze love of powver, young darkling. I find it healthy viz people of our caliber, really. In fact, Harry's selflessness scares me more. But Voldemort, in his qvest for powver, ended up a razer pathetic wizard. Be stronger zan zat, und harness your scars, ya? Harry vill be very upset if he has to kill you," Grindelwald's deep but melodious voice comes from behind me, his tone serious despite his heavy accent.

I find myself agreeing with him without much thought, for truly, Voldemort is a side of myself ruled completely by the fear of death, blind, obsessed and chained to its own wounds. This thing cannot become who I am. I will not let it; myself is my own, and I refuse to be forever ruled by my irrationally gigantic fear of decay and my traumatic experiences. I nod at Gellert Grindelwald, the gesture strong and stern, indicating clearly that I understand his words, and accept them, which causes him to smile a little.

"But be careful young Riddle. If you suppress ze monster instead of learning to live vith it, I fear zat something horrible might happen, ya? A multiple personality disorder, most likely, und zat vould be very unpleasant," he adds with finality, and then, suddenly, winks; a behaviour that I find a little odd, but that somehow suits his very self-contradictory existence. He also leaves the room, disappearing into the kitchen.

I close my eyes once more, blocking away new flashes of the horrible, shameful incident that led me onto this couch, ignoring the wound in my right hand cooling down and thus beginning to hurt considerably, and I try to sleep a little, waiting for a meal. I fail. Carefully I get up, trying to keep my shredded hand parallel to the ground and immobile, and I slowly move towards the kitchen, stubbornly disregarding my migraine. Upon reaching the door, I feel the desire to call Harry Potter to me, but since there are three people I there, I realise that I must call him something in order to specify who I am talking to.

Mister Potter sounds rather frigid.

Professor would be a little silly in this case, and it would also apply to Humble-floor.

Potter perhaps; he does call me Riddle sometimes after all.

I could never use Harry after such a terrible event, or even before it really, unless it serves some specific purpose. Despite him having requested I use his given name, I can't bring myself to speak so casually.

Lost in thought concerning this trivial matter, I barely notice him walking towards the door and standing there, in front of me, a slight smile on his handsome face. When his presence sinks in, I realise that I have not thought about what exactly I am supposed to say, nor am I certain of the reason that drove me to stand up and look for him, so I simply stare at him, awkwardly. I lower my eyes more easily than I would normally do, but I guess that the guilt and sadness I feel concerning my demented behaviour earlier on is affecting me.

"If I had ended up killing you, I promise I would spend a long while regretting it," I suddenly mumble, feeling the urgent need to break this weird silence, and the words flow out of my mouth before I can approve of them. I cringe inwardly at what I have just uttered, finding it childish, pathetic and ridiculous and also far too revealing concerning the strange attachment I am beginning to sense between myself and the green man. It also an oddly rude, inappropriate statement, since I should obviously have apologised intensely about raising a wand against him, and explain that it happened against my rational will, instead of simply mouthing out this stupid phrase.

And yet, he gives me a steady, serious look, the incredible power in his eyes concentrated on me with gravity, and he places his hand on my shoulder, as if I just made a terrible, unexpected declaration.

"You promise that?" he asks. I am a little taken aback by his desire that I repeat or somehow confirm my earlier statement, for it is a completely stupid, senseless, embarrassing one. Since Potter seems to be waiting for some kind of reply though, I lift my eyes back into his and nod.

"So you are actually able to give a damn about other people, huh? Well I'm pretty damn glad," he says concludes happily, and his serious face breaks into a large, wide, warm smile. Which then immediately disappears, turning Potter's strong, hard features into an ensemble of seriousness.

"Tom Riddle, I very well know that you do have a monster lurking inside your soul somewhere, and I have already experienced just how horrible and cruel it is. But I knew that from the first moment I set my mind on changing your future. To me this obstacle was always a given, and since I have seen much myself, I understand just how much the things we go through scar our minds. But if you'd actually feel bad about murdering me, instead of simply deciding you missed a good opportunity to gain power, then I can be pleased, overall, with what I have seen of you today. Although I am always an optimist, I was not sure you'd manage to reciprocate the fact I care about you. Go rest now," he finishes gently, leaving me stunned and wordless, my mouth a little dry and my mind too confused to pronounce an answer.

He turns his back at me then, and walks back into the far edge of the kitchen to help Albus and Grindelwald prepare a meal.

I stand there frozen, much like an idiot, and feel a new, unknown kind of heat rise to my cheeks. Caring about something or someone is a very simple concept really, and despite it being quite unusual and foreign in my case, I am quite capable of understanding how it works. People usually, as I understand, care about a great deal of things; about their so-called friends, about their blood kin, their pets, their property, even their occasional allies. Caring is a simple, casual behaviour, and it does not carry any heavy, special connotation. There is nothing extraordinary about caring.

So why is it that the concept of coming to care about the green man -or anyone else, that is- terrifies me so?


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. Or Death Note. Neither do I own the Silmarillion. Nor Star Trek for that matter. Did I mention Harry Potter isn't mine? And House MD, too. Man, I'm such a loser…

A/N: Ok, this important. SORRY BUT MOST OF THIS CHAP IS A RANT. I know most people dislike that, but I need to help Riddle understand the concept of compassion, and I have to find a way for him to some to terms with it. I do hope it works. But first some fluff and comic relief. I need it too.

Also, this is NOT slash yet. If it reads like slash to you, it's because we are fangirls, and slash is what we are expecting/wanting/trying to see. This is simply an emotional bond, still in the early stages of its development. Don't be hasty!

To Pouf: You apologise? What the hell? Don't do that! I love it when people point out little stuff like that. Seriously. There just happened to be an explanation for this one. But keep nit-picking. I enjoy it.

To Dupel: Yes, I know that reading PoVs can get a little tiresome. I actually agree, since writing them is even more troublesome than that! But since Potter's and Tom's perceptions of reality are still vastly different, point of views are needed. An example: Tom's reality is that his foster parent is possibly experiencing some twisted attraction towards him, since there is no other explanation for his affection and desire for physical proximity. But in the eyes of Potter (and the rest of the world), Tom's guardian is simply trying to create a bond with his adopted son, to approach him and show him love. Without the use if PoVs, showing this would be impossible.

To The Silver Fallen: Thanks for your flattering and in-depth reviews. I love it when readers that are starting this just now are kind enough to comment on more than one occasion as they read along. It makes me believe a little more in the inherent goodness of mankind.

To the rest: I am grateful for all reviews, be it one line or ten of them. Phoenixfromtheflame, Barranca, farwalker and other regulars: you are worth more than my morning coffee.

* * *

Chapter 29

Dumbledore's PoV

Eventually the food is ready, and although I can hardly manage to concentrate with this delicious smell tickling my nostrils, I manage to transfigure the furniture in my living room into a dining set. An attractive one, too, with large mahogany chairs and a fantastic table full of elegant unicorn carvings. With Gellert's help we summon the food from the kitchen to our brand new dining table, while Harry is still trying to figure out the difference between water glasses and wine glasses, his cheeks blushing a little at his own ignorance. He must not have had a very charming and sophisticated family, poor dear.

When everything is finally ready, with a table more than brilliantly prepared, I decide to go and shake Tom Riddle, who in the meanwhile seems to have fallen asleep. Oddly enough, I am in a bright mood. This whole household atmosphere makes me feel warm inside, despite the earlier incident involving a plethora of murderous curses and a psychotic breakdown. That boy, as I understand, carries some very severe wounds that he has never had the opportunity to lick. It's understandable. We all have skeletons in our closets, and we all have done things we are less than proud of. I am certain that Harry can help the young boy though, since there already seems to be some sort of bond discreetly blossoming between them.

I am sure Gellert would say something mocking if he saw me doing that, but I hastily shove a lemon drop into my mouth, although we are minutes away from having a full meal. Ah, guilty pleasures. You can never get enough of them. I look down at the young boy's sleeping form curiously, and extend my arm to wake him up. He whimpers a little, which is quite inappropriate since he until recently held ambitions of becoming a cruel and fearsome Dark Lord, and then his eyes fly open. They are simply too blue, I note. Nearly as blue as Gel's.

"Mn?" he asks very intelligibly, scanning his surroundings like a sly animal trapped in a difficult situation. It is interesting how he always needs a few seconds to get used to existing around others, even if it is people he knows, and was with even before he drifted off. I develop a theory about what is going to happen. He is going to give me a slightly mistrusting look, clench his jaw, then he is going to look over my shoulder, notice Harry, and finally relax.

He throws at me a somewhat mistrusting look, his features quite tense, before he glances over at the young time-traveler. Their eyes meet, and Harry offers him a very small but definitely tangible smile. The young student's facial muscles soften, and I smile triumphantly at my own people-reading skills.

I earn an odd look from Riddle for the beaming grin of victory I display.

"Won't you join us? We're about to eat now, and you do look like you need a good meal yourself. You're terribly pale. More than usual, I mean," I observe using a fairly serious tone, expressing my concern for his pasty complexion, which makes him cringe a little. He sits up, and using his right hand he lifts up his bandaged one as to ensure it won't move more than necessary. Quietly, he gets up and glides towards the dining table. Teenage boys, as I remember, are always quite clumsy and goofy. How this one manages to actually glide like this is simply beyond me. I quirk an eyebrow and follow him back to the table, smiling.

"Are you better now, zen?" Gellert asks him sweetly, throwing back a strand of golden curls that had been hanging on the left side of his face. I notice that the German wizard's still absolutely gorgeous. Which is something I tend to notice quite often lately, somehow. My heart fluttering a little, I sit myself next to my lover, who immediately places a possessive hand on my thigh. This happens under the table though, and no one else seems to notice. The other two are too busy observing one another, anyway.

Harry suddenly stands up and, leaning forward towards the boy, starts serving out the delicious-smelling food. "Since you actually admitted to being peckish, in reality you must be starving. We shouldn't keep you waiting," he states with finality and shovels insane quantities of foodstuff onto the student's plate. Tom Riddle looks a little horrified, but overall pleased.

"Thank you," he replies, a little too formally, and his beautiful face is as expressive as Fawkes just after a burning. And I mean the moments spent in the form of ash. My dear assistant professor proceeds in serving the rest of us too, and oddly enough he seems to be rather graceful about it.

"Vell then, bon appétit!" Gellert exclaims, staring greedily at his food while I am too busy staring greedily at Gellert. This rapid succession of English and French, both spoken with an adorable German accent is simply too appealing to my multicultural tastes. Noticing my meaningful look, he very swiftly, so swiftly than I barely have the time to register it, winks at me. Then he slowly places the spoon inside his mouth, his lips ever so slightly curved upwards into a seductive smirk. If I had another lemon drop on me, I'd pop into my mouth and gulp it down nervously. Suddenly it's not just the food that I want to eat.

"Why are there unicorns on the table?" Tom Riddle asks flatly, disrupting my unfolding fantasies involving Gellert and peach sherbet. His eyes are pinned on the table's décor, an incredulous expression on his face. I find his question truly bizarre, and frown a little, while Harry is struggling to keep himself from chuckling, causing him to choke on his rice. Then, of course, I realise the source of Riddle's inquiry.

"Oh, right. You grew up in muggle environment, right? I have heard that muggles do acknowledge the existence of unicorns somehow, but tend to associate them with feminity and childhood, for some odd reason. In the wizarding world my boy, unicorns are a symbol of moral integrity, resolve and elegance. Many famous war mages had unicorn patterns sawn onto their battle robes, you know," I explain gently, my voice shifting automatically to professor mode.

Potter roars in laughter, while even Tom Riddle is having a hard time suppressing the twitching smile that is forming on his usually blank visage. Is it something I said?

Grindelwald's eyebrows also rise in puzzlement. It's obvious he doesn't understand either, I am relieved to note. When our eyes meet, he just shrugs and continues to eat.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

Thinking to myself that I need to refine my lying skills and regretting my having used the excuse of being pecking in order to ensure my stay in the living room, I hesitantly bite on one more piece of meat. Although I do have to admit that its soft texture melts in the mouth quite pleasantly, I am certainly not hungry at all, and have no hope of managing to consume the entire mountain of food that has been placed onto my plate. Soon enough, I decide that I can not silently endure the torture of being forced to receive more nutrients than I could ever need, and thus I speak out.

"It was delicious, but I don't think I could consume any more of it. My metabolism is slow. I don't eat much, generally," I state factually, pushing the plate a few centimeters away with a graceful prod, and I feel all three pairs of eyes on me.

"Vell, zat's nonsense, boy. Unforgivables use a lot of magical powver, ya? You need to eat a good meal to regain ze lost strength. After casting zem I'd generally…" Grindledore begins to formulate some sort of reply, his finger waving up and down, but he is interrupted by Rumble-roar's sharp, forbidding glare. As I understand it, the strangely cheery professor does not truly appreciate us exchanging tips on the healthy use of Unforgivables and other such pleasantries; apparently he does not wish to be reminded of the fact he is fairly enamoured with a wizard that has enough blood on his hands to feed a vampire coven for a year.

"Please, allow me to retreat to the guest chambers," I insist politely, hoping that this meddling fool will be too occupied exchanging irritated glares with his retired Dark Lord to actually object to my kind inquiry. The green man is staring at me, his heavily masculine but angular face pensive, and it occurs to me that he will be adverse to leaving me completely on my own, in a room not even remotely connected to the one he will be in, after what happened earlier today.

"Are you going to be alright?" he asks, and his simple phrasing, his bluntness, his lack of unnecessary mollycoddling or patronizing expressions are all a breath of fresh air compared to tumble-door's fussy, forbearing personality. There is something about Harry Potter that is sheltering, custodial, but all in a quiet, straightforward manner; and to be honest, I know longer mind his killing-curse coloured eyes following me around vigilantly. It would be fairly hypocritical to be displeased by that or even uncomfortable, I suppose, for I also observe him meticulously, recording his every movement.

"I'll be fine. If not, I'll call for you," I reply, and that's quite a step for me really, for never before have I actually openly suggested that someone may have to come to my aid, and the words come out of my mouth my considerable effort. Nevertheless I know well that this is exactly what he needs to hear in order to feel reassured, so this is what I say; and then I try to smile, and to my own considerable surprise I manage only too easily. He simply nods, but the way his face softens and even glows a little when he is happy with what he's heard gives him away.

I get up carefully, take my plate to the kitchen and quietly retreat to the guest chamber, walking my way through a few of Wobble-war's study rooms and trinket-storing areas. I'll be alright now, I state to myself with unshakeable certainty, for my mind will be too distracted to heavily dwell on the rabid dog occurrence.

* * *

_**Although I am always an optimist, I was not sure you'd manage to reciprocate the fact I care about you**_

_**Although I am always an optimist, I was not sure you'd manage to reciprocate the fact I care about you**_

_**Although I am always an optimist, I was not sure you'd manage to reciprocate the fact I care about you**_

The words echo in my mind again and again, mercilessly, as I desperately try to make sense of them, to understand just what they are meant to mean. The green man, who so casually tells me that deep inside myself I am still harbouring a monster, who so calmly lets me know that he is fully aware of my sadistic streak, utters these words with utmost simplicity. _I care about you_, he repeats inside my mind, and I really cannot understand how he can so serenely acknowledge that I am bound to occasionally experience bouts of psychotic rage, and yet make such a statement.

I let my body, that feels unusually heavy, fall onto the bed, and I disinterestedly note that my bandaged hand is not actually as excruciating as I would have expected it to be; it has been a long time since I last felt any severe physical pain, so I was afraid it could have been very unpleasant. It isn't; it turns out to be a dull, mildly annoying sense of itching, only a little more aggressive.

_**-To care (verb)**_

_When used without object:_

_._

to be concerned or solicitous; have thought or regard.

**.**

to be concerned or have a special preference (usually used in negative constructions): _I don't care if I do. _

**.**

to make provision or look out (usually fol. by _for _): _Will you care for the children while I am away? _

**.**

to have an inclination, liking, fondness, or affection (usually fol. by _for _): _Would you care for dessert? __I don't care for him very much._

I suddenly recall this very clearly, the dictionary page floating in my mind, and I both thank and curse Morgana for having gifted me with such a crystalline, brutally honest eidetic memory. A mind that for some odd reason insists on reminding me how I have had to look this word up, as I child, feeling unable to understand how exactly it is to be used between people.

So what is it that the green man meant, exactly? Since he has offered to become my legal guardian, I would be inclined to guess that it is the responsibility of making provisions and looking out for that he is referring to. And yet, in that case, it would make no sense to talk about reciprocity, and so I just know that it is a sense of fondness that he is talking about, and this simply terrifies me.

It shouldn't, of course, because fondness and liking are very broad, very general concepts, and they apply to a large multitude of cases, most of which are not even remotely threatening. They even apply to me, at times, since I can quite honestly state that "I like music" and "I am fond of books". Indeed, in this context, it is easy to make sense of these words; they simply denote objects or opportunities that one would be averse to losing, for liking music means one would not appreciate a world without music, and being fond of books certainly means that one would be upset if books were to become absent.

I guess the same must apply to this verb when the object of the sentence is a human being; it must signify that this individual is someone one do not wish gone from one's life, an individual whose absence would have an impact on one's emotional world. Using this trail of logic, I suddenly realise how closely related the concept of caring is with the concept of protection; since one would be distressed by the absence of something they are fond of, in order to protect their own emotions they must protect the things they care about.

_**Although I am always an optimist, I was not sure you'd manage to reciprocate the fact I care about you**_

Is this truly the kind of emotion I am experiencing towards the green man? I am concentrating too much on this troublesome matter and my head is beginning to grow heavy, but I really do need to understand whether Potter has actually noticed something about my own emotions that I have somehow managed to be blind to. Being a somewhat intelligent and certainly very observant man, he would have not stated these words with such confidence had he not received evidence enough to convince him of their accuracy.

The thread of thought connecting the words, the concepts, leads me to a startling discovery. Caring-fondness-the desire to not lose-the desire to protect. It can be tested. It can be proven, in a rational, scientific manner.

I take my wand out, urgently, and the image of the green man's broad, toned frame, his weathered but kind face and his brilliant eyes forms in my mind as clearly as a cold spring morning.

"_Expecto Ager Curam"_ I whisper, closing my eyes nervously, and I notice that my voice is shaking a little, for reasons that I am not sure I can define. When I open them again, a few long, torturing seconds later, I am standing in the middle of a tiny but vivid patch of greenery, occasionally adorned with a few small wild flowers, and I can do nought but stare in shock.

How could this have happened without me noticing?

* * *

Potter's PoV

Tom Riddle has been gone for a few hours now, and although I really wouldn't want to disturb him, I can't help being a little worried. Today has been a hard day for him, and I do not want his mental balance, so fragile after the attack of his cruel memories, to deteriorate. It was perhaps not the best day to tell him about how I think he is beginning to care about others around him. It will probably just mess up with his mind even more, since he will see it as a weakness, and a flaw.

I really need to check up on him. Albus and Gellert are playing chess anyway, and they are very caught up in their intellectual rivalry. The rest of the world seems to barely exist for them, as if they are having sex. Perhaps they are, inwardly, I observe to myself, since they are both staring at each other intensely, flushed and tense. Suddenly Ron's obsession with chess feels inappropriate. With the two older wizards locked into one another, my mind drifts off continuously to the young man, concerned and speculative.

I really need to check up on him, I conclude for the second time, and I finally get off this stupid armchair.

I meet him halfway through Albus' strangely decorated library, walking towards the living room swiftly and furiously. He stops abruptly, and I need but a second to know that it is me he is looking for. He is perhaps slightly taken aback by bumping into my so unexpectedly, for does not have any statement ready; his face is cool and tense though. I stay silent, letting him take the lead, for he seems to have something to say.

"I think I know what you want from me. You want revenge. But since physical pain does little to me, and death is simply death, you wish to inflict on me a much worse kind of suffering, like the one I subjected you to by murdering your parents and other loved ones," He begins, and already I can tell this is going nowhere good. I stay silent.

"But couldn't simply murder my own kin or other people I was emotionally attached to, simply because they weren't any. I was invulnerable to that kind of pain. And so you decide to create openings in my defensive mechanism," He continues, and he looks rather convinced with his hideously twisted theory, to my horrified amazement.

"You are putting me through the process of recovering traumatic memories and facing them with you, of spending time with other people, so that you can make me vulnerable to an emotional attack," He accuses without even blinking.

"You are trying to give me things, so that I may experience the terrible, indescribable pain of having them taken away again. It's the only way you could possibly hurt me as badly as I have damaged you in your future, since a _Crucio_ would mean little to me, and you know it," He concludes, and by now he looks utterly sad and simultaneously angered, which must be because I am not denying his ridiculous theory. His fists are clenched, and his eyes piercing through me as if he is trying to read my reactions to his having revealed my grand scheme.

Good grief, he really is fourteen, isn't he?

"No," I say, simply. He glares at me incredulously at first, but then his fists relax just a little. Since he can have a fairly accurate reading of my emotions should he try to, he has a rather good way of sensing if I am lying.

"No?" he asks, his voice cool and low.

"No. I honestly care about you. I think you are a very talented, very beautiful and certainly very intelligent boy. I want to see you find your way, and get rid of your demons. I think you have the potential of becoming both a great wizard and a great man," I say, and as the words pour out of my mind, I unwillingly become a little sentimental, since they are completely, undeniably true. There's nothing damaged, tortured and hurt that hero-complex-ridden Potter does not feel the compulsive need to love and protect.

Damn me.

I lean downwards so that I can watch the boy's face without having to look down, and I reach for his hand. He jerks back a little, and that truly annoys me, for I thought that he was actually over such a reaction. He had been for quite a while now. But being a stubborn Gryff, I try again, and this time his hand stays in mine. He stares.

"You **actually** believe that?" he asks, stressing each word, while his left eyebrow, thin and charming, is pushed upwards in mild disbelief. Fortunately, I know just how to offer him tangible proof that he won't be able to deny.

"Legillimens me," I state. He looks at me questioningly, and since our faces are fairly close, I notice all the little muscle movements on his breathtakingly perfect face. He does as I say anyway.

_**I lift the young Slytherin, but much to my surprise, I do not feel comfortable placing him over my shoulder and carrying him the way I would generally carry a fallen comrade. Instead I place both arms beneath him and bring him up to my chest**__**, lifting his light and graceful frame upwards carefully.**_

"That's you. Carrying me. What are you trying to.." he begins, but I gently interrupt him.

"_Expecto Ager Curam" _I mutter the incantation slowly, and suddenly I am almost afraid of just what the results would be. My hands glow, a soft copper hue, which spreads to the floor of the entire room, and even beyond that, into the corridors. Soon, said floor is fully covered with thin, lively blades of glass and exquisite lilies, and it makes me almost wince, since it is quite a potent Ager.

An overly potent Ager, even.

* * *

The boy is staring at the radiating vegetation in obvious fascination, and also, strangely enough, a sense of strong discomfort and nervousness. He appears equally pleased and scared, both relieved and gripped by the fear of the unknown.

"You know, when you… when you said I care about you, I was a little puzzled. I hadn't… I didn't… I thought I wasn't even _able_. At least yet. Hadn't realised… I… I cast this spell. Great minds think alike, one could say? I cast it, because I had to know…" he suddenly starts rambling, and it's truly amazing, because the sensuous, arrogant, overbearing Tom Riddle is nearly stammering, his magnificent eyes hopping from place to place.

"And something actually happened. The spell… to a degree, it actually worked. Nothing that impressive, but nevertheless I never expected… I was never sure whether I actually could… About a person, you know. Congenital psychopathy… For a time I believed I never would. I mean, manage to_ care,_" He continues, a strange, desperate confession that makes perfect sense to me. He is still so young, I realise, and so oddly delicate.

"Well then, perhaps, no matter whether what is wrong with you is hereditary or acquired, it's not so absolutely irreversible after all," I say, simply, smiling at him stupidly. The intensity of the moment is screwing with my mind, and the copper glistering of the Ager charm is simply making this surreal. I see his eyes well up with tears, and then he suddenly starts babbling.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle? Almost in tears? Is this for real?_

"I had been convinced for the longest time that I would never… And that no one would actually care. I mean, without wanting something else. Everyone always wants something in return. So I thought… I'd have to either be a monster or live forever pretending… Like a man that can read the lyrics but cannot hear the music, like a puppet that can imitate the gestures but can't grasp the meaning… But maybe…" he starts murmuring again, and his voice is so low that he is probably saying this to himself rather than me. Nonetheless, I am flattered to be important enough for him to be making such a confession out loud.

"And I'm... not displeased that you care. You could do that, and then show me how it's done… I'd tolerate it, I think. It could be alright," I manage to make out of his increasingly incoherent mumbling, and I can tell that he is fighting with himself, trying to avoid showing too much in front of me. And yet, although hey are not dripping down, the tears are there, right around his eyes. I really want to make him shut up.

_Merlin, you vicious , arrogant, sly, endearing little dolt; be quiet, damn you._

So I move forward and crush him in a strong, firm embrace, his head pressed against my chest and lower neck. His breaths first come out hasty, uneven, and I feel them clearly as they are released against my neck's skin. I still hold him tight though, until his body finally relaxes, and his lungs resume their normal, methodical rhythm.

Then he pushes his head deeper into the hollow of my neck, and sighs.

It makes my mouth dry.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: "I claim dis!" Aha…ha. Ha. D'you get it? Oh, the _wit_!

A/N: I am really glad that my previous chapter was widely liked. To be honest, I was fairly nervous about it. I always am when I write scenes that are supposed to be truly intense, since I am afraid of falling short of my readers' expectations

To The Silver Fallen: Yes, Tom Riddle _didn't actually cry_. I feel he'd refuse to cry over a matter of sentiments even if hell was crashing down. And indeed, he only just found out he is actually capable of basic compassion. A romantic relationship is still far, far away. And yes, your impression of Grindeldore chess!sex is spot on, too!

To WelcomeToTheAsylum: Symbolism behind large hands? I guess that since Riddle's a rather small-framed teenager any male adult's hands would be big compared to his. Especially someone strong and toned, like Harry. The thing is, since he never allows any hands around him, it's probably the fist time he ever noticed his hands being delicate in comparison to someone else's, which is why he keeps noting it. But if you want symbolism, I'd say something about guidance and protection.

To Feuerfliege: I know that Tom was a pain in the ass to read during the first chapters, and that might have been very off-putting. But if I made him pleasant and mysterious and elegant I would just be making him OOC. I'm glad you are liking him better now. Think of it that way: the change would have been much less important if he already was a knight in dark armour.

To snowflake, Yessi94 and all the people who are reading this in one go: Woah. Just woah. Doesn't your head hurt?

* * *

Chapter 30

Riddle's PoV

There's a small, shrilly voice in my mind that is very displeased with the current situation, urging me to break this stupid, senseless embrace, and warning me about developing such ridiculous and dangerous weaknesses. Truly enough, I have a hard time believing I could get away with experiencing such emotions without grave consequences, because from what I have seen of the world there is always a catch for every pleasure, a trap in every comfort.

And yet… Enclosed suddenly in his arms, I find myself victim to their alluring warmth and the strangely pleasurable sensation of being protected from the rest of the world, guarded. And thus, despite my best judgement, I do not break away, nor do I even attempt to remove my body from its current position. This feeling of being held rips clear through many of my psychological defences, and although my mind is in perfect turmoil, I can't help but analyse my own reaction.

I deduce that the reason the green man's actions are affecting me in such an excessive way is because this sense of being surrounded by protective warmth taps into my very early memories of being looked after and perhaps even breast-fed by my care-takers. Maybe it even reminds me, subconsciously, of my time spent as a fetus, which is probably the only time in my life when I had a family and a loving environment to hold onto.

The truth is, though, that Freudian analysis' and complex, scientific approaches are but my natural excuse to avoid an active, emotional participation in what is currently happening to me. And so in an act of recklessness, or bravery as a Gryffyndor would see it, I decide to clear my mind from useless deductions and toss aside all my excuses, focusing instead on the sensation of a body against mine, of someone who cares about me.

Someone that I care about.

I press my head harder against Harry Potter's chest, placing it where his neck meets his shoulder, in this strange hollow area created there that seems to exist solely to accommodate the heads of shorter individuals. Somehow, this small gesture comes naturally to me, in spite of the fact my whole existence is screaming against it with desperate fervour. This time though, I will not listen to my embittered and cynical self-preservation instinct, for this magnificent albeit frightening moment should not be spoiled by my own monstrosity.

To my horror, a small sigh escapes from between my parting lips, and it instantly makes me feel like some sort of vulnerable prey; a child caught in a strange, comforting trap. This lulling sense of being provided for, of having a family is what has turned most children my age into unthinking, weak, soft morons, and I cannot allow myself to forget that the world is a jungle where each one of us must fend for themselves.

And yet, is it truly so wrong that I might be guiltily pleased to discover that my incapacity for genuine empathy and compassion is not absolute and biochemically irreversible, and that perhaps, if and when I chose to, I could be allowed to experience these same feelings of proximity and caring the rest of my idiotic, undeserving peers receive an endless supply of?

Absorbing a few more seconds of this odd, new sensation of bonding, I let my eyes close temporarily, trying to aid my aching mind in emptying itself. But my twisted mind is too alarmed by this situation and unwilling to cooperate, filling me with insecurities, warnings and poisonous suggestions; so I eventually open my eyes again and, submitting to my inability to enjoy this moment without second thoughts, I push away from Potter's body, softly. He lets me go.

And so I stand before him, nervously, and stare at his eerily understanding expression and his brilliant, intimidating eyes, noting that he looks neither upset nor disappointed at my having pushed him away at some point; I guess he must have been expecting such a reaction from me, and probably sooner than it actually happened. His small smile is either affectionate of enigmatic, I am not sure which, because my observation and deduction skills are currently hindered by my being emotionally charged.

"It's going to be alright. I'd never betray your trust. And I'd never exploit your weaknesses. Besides, you barely have any," He says suddenly, and his voice is not the gentle, reassuring mumbling I had expected it to be; instead it is a clear, confident statement, which somehow I find infinitely more reassuring. I keep my eyes riveted into his somehow, and I nod strongly, deciding not to utter anything out loud unless I am certain that my voice will come out composed and unfaltering.

"Let's go back. Albus and Gellert will be waiting," He adds simply, his face friendly and open, so I follow him quietly as he walks back to the living room, various thoughts reeling wildly inside my tired head. Gamble-doe and his German guest, both grinning happily like old Cheshire cats, are indeed waiting for us in the living room, sitting around a low, square table on which a strange card game is spread.

* * *

"Ve vere just thinking about you. Zis game is much better vhen played vith four people, you know. Ve'll make teams!" Grindledore states with finality, and although I have no desire whatsoever to play some sort of silly card game, I find myself a little apprehensive at the thought of going against a former Dark Lord's wishes. Harry Potter throws a little smirk at me, and then he stares at the odd cards questioningly, shooting a perplexed look towards Albus Dumble-boar.

"It's just a little knowledge game Elphias offered me once. The cards have obscure magical questions on them, and after the questions are asked and answered, the correct answers appear floating above the card. I thought I'd be fun playing with Gellert against you younger people." He explains cheerfully, his teeth showing and blinding us with their ridiculous brightness, and I can feel my eyebrow twitching in irritation.

"So you're pitting a fourteen year old student and a fairly clueless assistant professor against a renowned wizarding academic and a former Dark Lord? Will you get some sort of twisted pleasure out of beating us senseless?" the green man asks, and his lips are about to break into an amused smile as he stares at the joyful Transfigurations' Master.

"I don't know about Al, but I vill," The retired homicidal wizard replies, and his light-hearted honesty is really annoying me right now. And yet his predatory grin and his dark blue eyes and screaming a challenge at me, and being the proud individual that I am, I find it a little difficult to turn down academic challenges.

"Don't worry Harry, there's a few Quidditch questions, too. You are sure to beat us in this department," The auburn haired man adds gently, and his tone suggests fondness and pity; which I am of course sure he is doing on purpose in order to irritate Potter into accepting the challenge. Surprisingly enough, the green man sees through Albus' acting as swiftly as I do, and starts chuckling while he throws his arm around my back and brings me towards the table.

"We'll play," He states, and all of a sudden I notice an oddly happy expression on his face, and also note that even though I never agreed to playing, the decision was smoothly made for me by my infuriating guardian-to-be. Oh well, it can't hurt to show to these arrogant, old, meddlesome coots what a sly Slytherin is made of, I think to myself quietly, and smirk.

And so we play.

Surprisingly enough, two hours later the game is yet to come to a close, and the gap between the coots and us is very, very small; in fact, never during the game did it get larger than a couple of points. Despite my confidence in my own intellect and abilities, I had still expected the older wizards to rise victorious in a matter of minutes, and even delaying them that much I would have considered an intellectual triumph. And yet, here we are, the score being 47-45 with them in the lead, and I can barely believe both Potter and I managed to come up with such an impressive performance.

Actually, to be fully honest, it's not my own performance I am particularly surprised with; it is the green man's, for as sharp as his wit can be, we are both aware that he is not exactly a bookworm, and that he does not, like the rest of us, indulge himself in academic research. Nonetheless, it turns out that his knowledge extends far beyond matters of Quidditch, since he managed to answer to some pretty strange and obscure questions on magical history and spell theory. Which actually does not please me that much.

Of course, every time Tumble-door or Grindelwald attempt to compliment him on his impressive ability to reply to bizarre questions, he ends up muttering something about "Hermione" having explained this, or "Hermione" having mentioned it during this or that occurrence, as if nothing were. If he hadn't once told me of his muggle-born friend and her incredible academic genius, I would have probably ended up asking what a "Hermione" is and where I can buy one.

* * *

"So Albus, Gellert, what is the geographical location of origin of the magical beast representing the runic number five?" Potter asks reading out his card, and I can't help but sigh in exasperation, because this question is truly elementary and I am certain the meddlesome candy-eater will have no trouble answering. Indeed the two older wizards look at each other, conveying silently the fact they both obviously know the answer, before the retired Dark Lord waves dismissively, signalling for Albus to bother formulating a reply.

"Mmmm, cute one, Harry. Runic number five is symbolised by the Quintaped, also known as the Hairy McBoon. Its location of origin is also its only home, and is an unplottable island known as the Isle of Drear. Would you like a lemon drop?" Bumble-bore exclaims happily, a huge, eerie smile plastered on his pale face, and extends his arm towards Harry Potter, who groans and buries his head between his hands.

Meanwhile, the German wizard picks up a card, and while his eyes scan through the question a threatening smirk starts to spread on his face. When he eventually lifts his dark blue eyes and charmingly throws back a couple of golden locks, looking immensely pleased with himself, I have no doubt his question is going to be insanely difficult. Of course, since dark wizards tend to have a fondness for theatrics, he clears his throat in a menacing manner before actually reading the question, and cracks his knuckles a few times.

"Has the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures ever executed a Hippogriff? If so, when was the most recent case?" he reads out slowly, totruringly, clearly enjoying himself, while Dumbledore looks oddly attracted by his guest's obvious sadistic streak and ends up blushing furiously. I sigh quietly, knowing full well that this point is lost to us, since there is no way either of us could possibly know… and then I notice Potter, who seems to be chuckling. Dear Morgana. He turns around to me, and while lifting his sleeves up to add to the whole dramatic effect, he smiles, and then places on hand on my chest.

"Leave this one to me, Tom Riddle," He whispers, which results to our two opponents staring at him with an air of disbelief before their lips curve up in obvious amusement. To my own dismay, I realise that I am most probably the only who is **not** having fun with this whole procedure, for they all seem to be enjoying themselves very, very much.

"The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures has indeed ordered the execution of a Hippogriff before, the most recent case having occurred in 1772," Harry Potter states gravely, and Grindelwald's blond eyebrow's shoot up beyond his hairline while Dumbledore quickly swallows a few canary caramels, and muffles a few giggles at his lover's expression. This is impossible, I decide, siding with the German wizard. He can't possibly know that, I think to myself, and suddenly my usual composure breaks.

"How the _hell_ could you possibly know that weird fact? Seriously, you must be fucking kidding me!" I exclaim desperately, and I stand up so violently that I hear a heavy *thump* behind me, which means I must have thrown my chair back. I mean, I will accept that he knew about France's most prominent Veela clan (he was told by some "Gabrielle"), that he knew about the side-effects of a badly brewed Polyjuice, that he knew of Rowena Ravenclaw's sister and daughter, but _this_?

"Well, Hermione suggested we do some research on Hippogriff executions when Buckbeak was convicted…" He begins hesitantly, shrugging, and at this point I admit I am getting truly irritated, for I would not have minded losing to the two older wizards; what I am minding though, is being completely ridiculed and outclassed by Potter's performance, who apparently knows the answers to these questions **by accident**. Because some woman told him, some Hermione, or some Nymphadora or some Gabrielle.

"Who the hell is Buckbeak?" I ask angrily, and although a little voice inside me is suggesting that losing my calm like that is very unbecoming, and that I should try and suppress my ridiculously competitive nature, I fail to regain my composure this time.

"He was the Hippogriff my godfather used to flee the Aurors. And then he fought with me in quite a few battles, too. He was a very brave beast. When my godfather died, Buckbeak mourned him for weeks," He replies in all simplicity, as if stating the obvious, and now I am really confused, since it makes no sense to me that someone who is related to Potter and therefore the Light side should have to flee the Aurors. The green man sense's my confusion, and, looking up at me with his brilliant green eyes, he tries to come up with a shortened explanation.

"My godfather was a convicted criminal, actually. His name was Sirius Black, and yes, he did come from the same Black family that Slytherin is currently crowded with. But he ended up a Gryffindor somehow, and become a valuable fighter for the Light side. Well, the thing is that he was at some point accused of betraying some people to a Dark Lord, and causing a terrible explosion that caused many muggles their life . Although he was actually innocent, as I later discovered. But anyway, when he escaped from Azkaban…" he starts again, and this time I think I might smash something.

"He –_escaped_- from Azkaban? You can't _–ESCAPE_- from Azkaban! What is wrong with your life? Does it defy logic and smash rationality just to annoy me?" I finally mutter, feeling really, really tired, and I lean down to lift the fallen chair before sitting down again. At these words, the green man's eyes darken and harden, the usual warmth of his face replaced by an expression of bitterness, and he glares at me coldly, causing me to regret my ridiculous outburst.

"I'll tell you what's wrong with my life. It's the fact I saw my parents murdered in front of me when I was one, and the fact I was the vessel for a fragment of a twisted monster's soul. It's also that I had to see everyone I held dear suffer, that I buried everyone that had even been a father to me, and that by the time I was twenty I had fought in more wars than bloody Merlin. So swallow your goddamn pride, Riddle. This is a sodding game, and it's ok if someone happens to know something you don't, alright?" he mutters lowly, and of course I end up feeling like a moron and a fool, and so, despite a part of my being infuriated by the way he is glaring at me, I bite my tongue and pick a card.

"Which country won in the Quidditch championships of 1459?" I ask the older wizards flatly, and Grindelwald shoots at me a look of pure hatred for having been lucky enough to pick the one area in which he has no knowledge whatsoever, while Dumbledore swiftly shoves a chocolate frog down his throat.

* * *

Potter's PoV

With the score up to 89-87 and no hope of seeing the ten point difference required to have a winning team, I decide that perhaps we should continue another day. I suggest it, and Tom is awfully quick in agreeing with me, if not desperate. The game is thus postponed, and Albus goes into the kitchen to make Gellert some tea.

"I'll go for a short walk, would you like to join me?" I ask the young student, who looks horribly gloomy, and he looks up at me disbelievingly. I guess he thinks I must be terribly angry with him for his little scene earlier, but I am not. I know he is in a very confused state, and that his mind must be a web of anxiety, discomfort and confusion. I only shot him down like that to help him regain his composure, which he did.

"Alright," He says, but he follows me out very reluctantly, as if I would suddenly change my mind. Outside it's fairly cool, and a strong wind is blowing. The night isn't too cloudy though, and I can see quite a few stars, which I always appreciate.

"I shouldn't have behaved like that," He suddenly states, and his voice is factual, detached. And yet, the fact alone he is trying to say he is sorry is fairly touching, so I offer him a somewhat resigned smile. He averts his eyes, and looks very pensive.

"It's alright. You are arrogant, and competitive by nature, and this game should have been something for you to show your skills in. I understand why you'd be frustrated. It was actually quite the odd coincidence that I'd encountered the answers to many of the game's questions during my life. We both know that as far as academia goes, you are infinitely superior to me," I offer, and he looks a little shocked at my willingness to admit this so openly. Why wouldn't I, though? It's not like I have to be ashamed of not being on the same intellectual wavelength as Tom or Gellert, they are the century's prodigies after all.

"Thank you. Although I… I mean, I cast Unforgivables, I very nearly cast against you, and then I make a scene. It's very unlike me. I don't know what's wrong with me lately," He mutters and instead of walking behind me, he hastens his step and comes forward to walk besides me.

"I know. But in my eyes it's healthier for a young man like you to be overwhelmed and have meltdowns than to be some sort of composed icicle of perfection," I observe casually, trying to lighten the atmosphere with a bit of humour while actually telling the truth. Tom Riddle's face softens a little at my words, and I can discern just how handsome he is, despite the fact it is dark outside.

"So you think of this as an improvement?" he asks, and despite his mildly amused tone, I can tell that he is still quite concerned. Of course he would be. He is the greatest control freak I have ever met, and he is in a state of losing control. It's natural he would be having all sorts of strange reactions. All in all, I think he's doing well. But then again, I might be a little biased, since I am actually growing fond of the young student.

"Yes," I state simply. "You have long been too detached from this world, as if there was an endless, cold desert between reality and your soul. Nothing managed to cross the distance and get to you. If something can, it's definitely an improvement," I say, and his eyes widen a bit, their blue tinge barely visible out here in the night.

"An apt description… _Too apt_," he murmurs and once again his eyes wander in the distance.

"I felt like that too, for a while. It was just after my godfather died. I felt completely numb, unable to experience any emotional reaction towards the outside world. I got over it really fast though, thanks to my friends. Later on, during the wars, I often came close to falling back to that state. After seeing too much horror, you begin to find yourself unaffected by it, and at times I didn't even manage to cry at the sight of a dead child. Once again though, I snapped out of it eventually," I confess to the boy, for I really have to prove to him that I, better than anyone else, can understand how he feels.

"That probably makes you stronger than me," He bites back a little too bitterly, and I can tell he is conflicted, but also relieved to hear that I have been through something similar as he is.

"No, I simply had people to help me. Which you didn't. Lately, I have been doubting whether there is actually any difference between us at all in that aspect," I add, and his head turns around swiftly at my words, which he must be finding very surprising. "I was very young when I first realised how easily I could followed the same path as Voldemort. And how close I had been to doing so, without knowing," I conclude.

Painful memories come to mind, and I see myself in the Department of Mysteries, angry, violent, casting a Cruciatus towards Bellatrix and finding_ pleasure_ in doing so. And I see myself torturing Amycus Carrow shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, high on adrenalin, my heart beating fast. Even the most ethical of men can become true monsters under the effects of hatred, I think to myself silently, and stare at the young boy.

He seems to have nothing to say, so I turn my head upwards. The stars always have a strong effect on me, for reasons that I don't really know. Tom Riddle, perhaps due to our signature blending, or maybe simply due to the fact he has learned to read my face, can tell unpleasant things are going through my mind. He lifts his arm a little, but then he awkwardly drops it down again.

"I have been wondering… Seeing as the signature blending bond diminishes or even blocks at times the effects of curses we might throw at one another, does that mean it will amplify the effects of beneficial charms?" He suddenly states, perhaps feeling the need to break the silence. His comment though is a very interesting point, and I am quick to suggest we conduct some practical research, to which he agrees.

And so we end up experimenting with various charms on one another, ranging from lucky charms to defensive incantations, and it turns out the effects of these are indeed amplified when we use each other as the target. In some cases, they are actually amplified so much that their effects end up being comical. The Light-foot charm, which helps the caster tread silently by lifting a substantial amount of weight from his feet, is a fine example of that fact. When I cast it at Tom, he actually ends up floating a few centimetres of the ground, which makes him smile.

"Well, this could be potentially useful. In case the floor turns to lava, that is," He comments sarcastically, and I can't help but roar in laughter. Despite all our problems and our confusion, magic does always seem to make things better.

"You laugh like a retarded child with a sugar rush. Seriously, it's very unflattering for a wizard of your calibre. Stop that," He adds, but I only laugh louder instead.


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: Don't sue. Don't Mary Sue either, it's even more painful.

A/N: It's my EXAM period. Uploads will be inevitably slow, and readers will either be inevitably patient, or flame me. Meh, you can't escape fate. To all those who are sticking with me despite this temporary inconvenience, thanks. Since I don't have much time, I won't reply to reviews that don't actually require an immediate response. I'd rather just write an extra long chapter to make up for my slow updates. I mean, this boy is 11k words. Woo-hoo!

To Whiteinu1: Your question is excellent, and more complex than it would seem. Actually, I have no idea what Tom Riddle's height should be, or how tall he will eventually turn out. Since he is still 14, I decided he should be a head shorter than Potter without giving it much thought. With Potter being well-built but not too tall, that would mean that Riddle should turn out to be a fairly tall but not overly elongated individual. Which actually agrees to the movie portrayal of Voldemort, who is shown to be rather big (quite bigger than the sixteen year old Daniel Radcliff).

Warnings: This chapter will have a few small time skips, something which does bug a few readers generally. I need to get the plot moving, though. Also, finally, HP/TM PRESLASH! Yes, I mean it. Slow is good, but the slash eventually needs to happen.

* * *

Chapter 31

Riddle's PoV

As I lie comfortably in my bed, tucked underneath the meddlesome coot's odd, patchwork blanket, I do what I like doing best in this world, which also seems to be something I am particularly skilled at. I think.

When it suddenly occurs to me that I have spent the last five days at Fumble-boar's cottage surrounded by the most peculiar combination of oddly eccentric wizards, I admittedly feel surprised that all four of us have made thus far relatively unscathed (even my hand is healing by now, I notice). I also note to myself that the sleeping arrangement, that had at first caused me a substantial amount of anxiety and discomfort, did not turn out to be quite as unbearable as I had at first supposed, since Potter does not talk when he has nothing to say, does not intrude my privacy when he has no reason to, and is overall pleasant to the eye. Nevertheless, despite how his quiet and calm nature helps us retain the somewhat fragile balance of our combined existences, I can't help but wonder whether this aspect of his personality is natural to him, or if it actually is an acquired trait, molded into him by years of suffering and war. Either way, it probably doesn't matter.

What does matter is that Potter will at some point become my guardian, replacing my unctuous, nauseating and repulsively affectionate foster father, finally allowing me to have a home that can shelter my, admittedly frail, mental stability from the ugliness of the outside world. I, of course, do know that a time-traveler will probably not be viewed by the Ministry as the most adequate and appropriate person to take care of an overqualified magical orphan, and yet, in my head, there is no doubt that the green man will manage to gain custody for me; I don't believe that Potter is the kind of wizard that would allow the Ministry to obstruct his way. And even if he does, I certainly won't, and despite being nothing more than a nameless youngling in their eyes, I am confident in my own ability to deceive and convince.

When I want something, I tend to get it.

Wumble-door and Grindelwald are perhaps a little troublesome and certainly rather irritating at times, with their completely surreal behaviour and their oddly disquieting familiarity, but I am well-versed in the ways of suppressing my annoyance and controlling my anger, due to the fact that if I wasn't I would already be a mass-murderer, and thus have learned to not mind them. During these five days, the last three of which were fortunately quite uneventful compared to the terrible dog incident if not any less bizarre, I have actually found myself rather amused by the unusual combination of their incredible power, impressive intellect and endless weirdness.

Bumble-gore even allowed me to borrow and read through a few of his most prized tomes, including an extraordinary compilation of potent arithmacy-based wards and shields; a gesture I honestly did appreciate, and was rather surprised by. Knowing that the meddlesome coot never fell for my endearing façade and has always harboured feelings of distrust and wariness against me, I understand that giving me access to such valuable magical information must have truly been a leap of faith for him, and I suspect it had something to do with Harry Potter. Either way, it is a pleasant opportunity to acquire knowledge.

And knowledge is power.

The retired Dark Lord is in many ways the most unsettling individual amongst them, for he simply sits with us at dinner, making disturbing little jokes with this appalling accent of his, that his lover seems to find cute for reasons that are simply beyond me, smiling and winking, as if nothing were. And yet, I know for sure that throughout the United Kingdom dozens of adequately competent and exceedingly furious aurors are searching for him with unkind intentions, and I also know that he has perpetrated a great number of rather heinous crimes; and although this does not in any way bother me, I find it strange that is does not seem to bother my signature partner either, whose moral integrity is generally astounding.

Moreover, Gellert Grindelwald's extremely grim and fascinatingly bloodied past does not seem to haunt the former Dark Lord himself in any way whatsoever, for he neither seems to regret his actions, nor does he attempt to earn anyone's forgiveness. As I see it, this man's choice of abandoning his glorious albeit violent ascension to power has nothing to do with morals or maturity; it is actually a choice purely selfish in its nature. Lord Grindelwald simply wants his aloof, gentle Humble-sore more than he wants political or military power, and even though I can not really understand his truly eerie preferences, the fact that this cold-blooded dictator has abandoned a rising empire simply in order to indulge a personal whim entertains me to no end. Although there is still a chance I might be wrong about his seeming lack of conscience, for after all not all men wear their feelings on their foreheads, like the Transfigurations' Master does. Either way, I can learn much from the German wizard.

These days have also been pleasantly productive from a magical point of view, seeing as Potter and I have had quite a few chances to test out many of the possible characteristics of our signature-blending connection, and have been able to reach more than a few nice conclusions.

For example, we have discovered than, since our magic is highly compatible in its signature structure, a _Protego_ cast by the green man, if superimposed on top of a _Protego_ previously cast by me, will not simply result in the creation of two layers of protection; instead, it will produce an entirely new _Protego_, which will be more potent than the combined power of both our spells. Put simply, our magical strength does not add when combined; it multiplies, amplifying our abilities to new heights, and explaining the absolute secrecy and fascination surrounding the ancient ritual of signature blending. But these intriguing conclusions are not the main reason I so enjoy my magical experiments with the green man.

The truth is, his magic is simply… intoxicating. And when I feel it invading me, merging with me, coursing through my veins, the sensation is simply… I can't seem to find a non-sexual word to describe it, actually.

* * *

Of course it is not all fun and games, living together.

During the nights, Potter and I often did wake up to the screams of one another, seeing as a few days of relative peace and quiet can only do so much against a lifetime of pain and violence, and we are both damaged in very profound ways. But since I am no longer ashamed of my own twisted nightmares, due to the fact that the green man experienes those, too, these occurrences do not really matter anymore. Allowing others to witness signs of my supposed vulnerability is, after all, a surprisingly effective way to gain sympathy and even earn trust; if I can use the small cracks in my armour to my benefit, there is no reason I should conceal them so meticulously. Although, of course, I have more respect for the green man than to think he would so easily fall victim to my vulnerable and damaged charms, in spite of his apparent hero complex and his tendency to interfere in situations when someone seems to be in some kind of distress.

I am still trying to figure out exactly what sort of… wiles work on him, really.

As these thoughts slowly roll inside my restless and hyperactive mind, the sound of Potter's increasingly laboured breathing reaches my ears, and I briefly wonder what kind of nightmare the time-traveler could be experiencing this time. Eventually I stretch my body a little and get up on my feet, before walking quietly up to his bed and finding him sweating, his brows frowned closely together and his fists tightly clenched; in a way he looks much like he would, I imagine, during a very challenging duel or under a very painful curse. I decide that it is best if I wake him up before it gets any worse, no matter how intriguing it is for me to watch this unbelievably powerful wizard writhing in mental agony. After all, I certainly do not enjoy this sight, and due to the latest developments in our relationship, I am even finding myself strangely uncomfortable, if not even saddened by Potter's pain.

That is not to say that there isn't a part of me, a hidden, dark part, that finds the man surprisingly attractive when he is in pain; it is simply that the rest of me finds that particular part to be a little disturbing, as so I reach out for his shoulder and shake him a little.

His eyes flick open, and their surreal greenness focuses on my face stoically, his jaw slowly relaxing and his breathing returning to rather healthier rates. He is truly handsome, I observe inwardly for the nth time, and the heaviness of his breathing is affecting me in ways that it probably shouldn't. But it does, anyway, and although it would be very convenient to blame it all on hormones, since my age is generally the age during which men have no control over the attractions they experience, I refuse to.

"I was having a nightmare," He states simply, and his statement is in no way efficient, since it simply conveys information that we are both already aware of; and yet, it sounds exactly like the sort of thing the green man would say: straightforward, uncomplicated. Although, having witnessed one of his rather terrifying dreams, I am aware of how deeply horrid and hurtful and cruel his mind is to him, he seems to recover swiftly from his bloody visions, and his lips turn into a soft, bittersweet smile.

"Yes, you were," I agree somewhat detachedly, because I know that his earlier words were not in any way a question, and yet I feel the urgent need to respond to them somehow, if only to hear my own voice echoing in the large, dark room. Despite the darkness, my eyes manage to see very clearly, and I find them focusing on Potter's face once more, tracing along his strong jaw line and penetrating his bright Avada eyes. Instead of getting back to sleep, he stands up, and he stretches his fingers a little before rubbing his eyes; as gazes silently out of the window, he looks perfectly fine once more, glorious even, and his aura of power is alluring. I never quite understood how this wizard manages to seem so exquisitely powerful even in his moments of weakness, but I am now certain that it has little to do with magic and much to do with his brave and relentless personality. Either way, I wish I could remain as calm when faced with my own demons as he does, and I deeply respect him for that.

"It's one I've had before. I was helplessly witnessing Voldemort's head eating its way out of your body," He explains rather factually, but there is a hint of profound and yet gentle melancholy in his voice, an emotion that seems perhaps a little inappropriate when taking into account the hideous, cannibalistic nature of what he's just desribed. I ponder upon the content of his dream for a moment, and conclude that it must be far from the worst he's ever had; even the one he shared with me weeks ago was considerably more painful and disturbing.

Inwardly, I wonder why he would be having a nightmare involving me as the victim of his nemesis, when so many other individuals, closer to him emotionally, have perished in Voldemort's hands; accidently this thought comes out as a question.

"Are you afraid you'll lose me to Voldemort?" I whisper out the question, a question which I immediately regret, sincen it comes out sounding like a rather pathetic attempt at getting him to mention the fact he actually cares about me. I turn my head around and our eyes meet, his reflecting the pale moonlight infiltrating our room trough the window, hard and unreadable, mine hesitant after the thoughtless words I've uttered, and I wonder if he will find my tone to be arrogant. And yet somewhere deep inside, I already know that he has developed a considerable fondness for me. I am simply afraid of admitting it to myself, and taking it for granted. The implications would be too great.

"Yes," He replies, and this one word, so elegant in its simplicity and so terribly affectionate, is not exactly the answer I was expecting, so I feel my eyebrows unwillingly rise, and my lips part if only by a minute distance. Suddenly his somewhat blank face breaks into a shockingly tender and slightly playful smile, and he leaves the window, quickly closing the distance between us, before placing his hand on my shoulder. After having experienced physical contact with him time and again, I am no longer made uncomfortable by his touch; quite the contrary really, despite the sudden nervousness that overwhelms me when he stands so close to me.

The warmth of his body and facial expression radiate on me, arousing within me the gentler, most insecure part, longing to be taken away from the cruel, frigid world. And suddenly I notice his expression too, his gentle affection, his desire to be close to me. His heart is beating a little faster than it should, but that is something that happens to most people around me; I am aware of just how beautiful I am, and how that affects others. He is not immune to that, either, and in spite of knowing what a monster I truly am, there is no way he could possibly remain unaffected when I purr my seductive words at him, and pin my eyes onto his handsome body.

And yet, I have not even truly tried to seduce him yet, and feel very conflicted at the thought of attempting it.

He is powerful, handsome, experienced, imposing and perhaps the only man I have ever met who'd deserve to be my first lover. And yet, me, who never had any trouble using my sexual appeal to earn favours, find myself petrified at the thought of closing the distance between me and Potter; for this time, it actually matters to me.

"This is the part where you reassure me, and state with confidence that this is never going to happen," He says suddenly, and although he is being partially humourous, I am rather sure there is some serious truth in his mock request, which I decide to immediately grant.

"Be reassured. This is never going to happen," I repeat his words almost exactly, not knowing how to phrase a reassurance all by myself, and he looks a little bewildered by my so immediately obliging his mock suggestion. Nonetheless, he seems glad, too, and I wonder how the comforting words of a fourteen year old sociopath can mean anything at all to a wizard who has seen through two wars and countless, endless deaths. Sometimes I simply can't comprehend how Potter's mind works, for despite his seemingly uncomplicated character and his candid, direct attitude, his mind is not as plain and easily decipherable as one could have expected. If it was, I highly doubt he could have vanquished Voldemort; even though my future self might have been an over-theatrical, paranoid lunatic, one thing I could never have become is stupid.

"Ahh. Much better now." He exclaims cheerfully but without being loud at all, and he raises his other hand to ruffle my hair, as if I am some kind of child, which really irritates me. Nevertheless, I can't seem to bother getting my head out his hand's way, and so I patiently await for the inevitable, annoying gesture; which actually doesn't occur, since Potter catches me cold stare and spares me the humiliation. Instead, he places the extended arm on my other shoulder, and he offers me yet another one of his oddly serene and genuinely kind smiles, that soften considerably his hard, angular, masculine lines.

What would be the consequences of kissing him, I wonder? Would it help me acquire some measure of control over him?

I doubt it, for it would not leave me entirely unaffected, either.

"Whenever in need of comfort, you can always cry on the shoulder of your friendly teenage neighbourhood psychopath," I mutter sarcastically, snorting and smirking, and yet my venom is very mild, if not even discreetly friendly, and Potter knows this, damn his exceedingly observant nature. Suddenly my arrogant smirk falters, then wavers, and finally dissolves, and I, strangely enough feel my eyes sting a little, for a reason that I simply fail to pinpoint.

"Well, whenever in need of someone invading your private space, you can always depend on your overly friendly war mage and resident time-traveler," He responds and pushes both of his arms forward, sliding them past my shoulders and weaving them together behind my back gently. Why is it that when I wake him up from a terrible nightmare, sweating and whimpering, it is in the end he who ends up attempting to comfort me? And why is it that we are both so stubbornly ignoring the force that is pulling us towards each other every single night, always leading into each others arms or each other's mind?

* * *

Potter's PoV

Breakfast in a house within which Dumbledore resides is always a lot more complicated and considerably more fun than normal, plain breakfast. It usually involves insane amounts of chocolate, an unbelievable number of different jams and a disquieting variety of candy, which seems to terrify Tom Riddle. Gellert Grindelwald on the other hand, looks fascinated by the sheer amount of stuff Albus brings out of the kitchen, and very much enamoured. When the graying redhead finally sits down with us, Gellert leans towards him tackily and thanks him for the food in highly suggestive ways. Riddle averts his eyes very carefully.

"Well, Christmas is approaching," I state then, attempting to initiate some kind of harmless, general conversation. Of course, with Albus being as fond of feasts as he is, my bait works. The endearing coot turns around to me and beams brightly, his eyes twinkling. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, looks strangely crestfallen.

"Yes it is, isn't it? I love Christmas, a great opportunity to prepare exuberant food and use flashy decoration! This one will be memorable! I will Charm a tree so that it sings and then pin some twinkling starts onto the ceiling and also…" the Transfigurations' Master starts rambling on about superfluous party charms and exaggerated Christmas concoctions. Even Fawkes seems to be mildly worried about his master's overwhelming excitement, and poor Tom almost cringes at the list of senseless ideas. I happily chuckle behind my cup of spiced tea.

"Albus, ve have a very serious Christmas problem, ya? How vill I be able to go und buy prezents if ze aurors are looking for me?" Gellert inquires amusedly, waving a long finger around. Dumbledore looks shocked and distressed by that inquiry, and he drops his strawberry sprinkled doughnut, horribly disappointed.

"But we simply _ought_ to find a way for you to do some shopping. Shopping for Christmas presents is half the fun! You simply can't be allowed to miss that!" Albus declares dramatically and gets up with an expression of outrage on his face, while the young Slytherin student buries his handsome head between his arms in despair. Gellert stares mischievously if not triumphantly over the surreal scene he has so cunningly created. He is quite a bastard, really, that one.

"We could disguise him with charms. Or use Polyjuice on him or something. Has Polyjuice been invented yet? Oh, of course it has. But that wouldn't work, would it? The aurors could already read magical signatures in the fourties if I remember correctly…" I babble a little stupidly, and all three of them stare at me incredulously. Tom Riddle looks quite adorable when his left eyebrow twitches like that, I notice. Gellert is almost giggling.

"Well, there must be some way to temporarily alter or suppress the trail one's magical signature leaves, although I guess it will probably be rather complex…" the young student thinks out loud, and I have to admire his ability to think rationally and academically even when the problem presented to him involves a retired Dark Lord and Christmas presents. Dumbledore is scratching his chin too, looking pensive and concerned with the matter of signature encryption.

"What's the difference between transfiguring a magical object into an entirely different magical object, and altering someone's magical signature?" I suddenly ask, and once again all three pairs of eyes are placed on me questioningly. Tom Riddle graces me with an answer.

"None, really. When transfiguring one magical object into another magical object, you actually change the structure of the object's magical core. That is, the equivalent of a wizard's magical signature. The thing is that such a transfiguration has not been done since the times of Merlin, and although we are all rather competent wizard, I doubt that until Christmas we'll have had the time to…" he explains in an oddly grave tone. No matter how ridiculous the whole Gellert-and-presents issue is, Tom Riddle seems to take any challenge presented to him very, very seriously.

"That's no problem. I can do magical to magical Transfiguration," I offer cheerily. Albus' glasses fall off his nose, Gellert's blond eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and the handsome Slytherin suddenly looks very, very tired. I guess this is something I am not supposed to be able to do, judging by their reactions, so I just grin goofily.

"Of course you can. I should have guessed," Riddle mutters in a tone of pure defeatism and places his face onto his hands, resigned. Albus Dumbledore quickly regains his composure and offers me a wide, brilliant smile and a happy, twinkling stare, while Gellert sighs and mumbles something in German. I am about to explain a few things about how Hermione discovered the way to transfigure non-material entities, but I decide that perhaps it's not the right time for this.

* * *

Finally we decide that it is probably for the best that we all visit Diagon Alley in disguise, so after a few fun hours during which we tamper with various appearance-altering potions, charms and spells, all four of us are perfectly unrecognisable, and rather comical. Tom Riddle is a tall, blond boy with slightly slanted green eyes and freckles, Albus is a muscular man with a squared jaw and a hard, black stare, while Gellert looks somewhat effeminate with his long dark locks, golden skin and large, brown eyes. He bats his eyelashes a lot, too. As for me… I've always wondered if I'd look good as a Weasley.

I actually suspect that there was no particular reason for anyone but Grindelwald to change their appearance, since Tom Riddle is simply a teenage boy, I am a time-traveler that barely anyone knows and Albus is a very well-respected individual. So really, this whole business of better safe than sorry makes no sense at all, and I am sure the rest realise that, too. The truth is that we are probably doing all of this just for the heck of it. For fun. But now, four serious wizarding prodigies would not admit that out loud, would they?

And then it occurs to me that the only money I have is twelve galleons, and that Tom Riddle probably owns even less than that, since he has no source of magical income at all.

"Well, Albus, the whole plan of splitting up and buying presents for one another is very touching, but I am not sure exactly what I can get you with my twelve galleons that will be of any use to you… Plus Tom here is probably completely… well, empty-handed," I admit a little nervously, scratching the back of my head. Tom Riddle turns around to me and offers a look of gratitude; he has probably been thinking about the same issue, but was really trying to avoid bringing it up. Gellert laughs melodically throwing his long, dark locks behind and swallows a small chocolate while his lover, weirdly enough, beams happily at us, which does not look normal on his new, tough face.

"That's alright, Harry, my boy. I've already thought about this. I will be financing his little excursion all by myself, don't worry! We will all start with five hundred galleons each, alright?" he mentions factually, his eyes glimmering brilliantly as he summons four bags full of gold. Knowing how insane my late mentor could be, I am not actually shocked by this, but Tom Riddle looks terribly disbelieving and a little pale, in not nauseous. Even in that state, he is oddly handsome.

"Why…?" he manages to mumble incredulously, staring at the heavy pouches of galleons held out in front of him. Dumbledore's odd gesture probably makes no sense at all to a practical, sly, selfish snakeling like him.

"Well, for the fun!" Albus exclaims. Tom Riddle pins his eyes on the smiling man coldly, and looks murderous. I can feel his magic crackling in the air. For reasons I can't understand, I can feel him getting increasingly irked and angry.

"No. That's just not a viable reason. Will you please stop pretending you are insane, sir, when we all know just what a brilliant, strategic mind you possess? Now, will you please tell me why?" he spits out sharply, and although his new appearance is less eerily beautiful and menacing than his previous one, he manages to look just as dangerous. I realise than that he probably feels he is being cheated and deceived by the older wizard, which is something Riddle is certainly not fond of. Albus' smile decays into a pair of thin, pursed lips, and suddenly he looks extremely serious, if not grave. He reminds me more of the less carefree, older Dumbledore that I fought next to, the one I hunted down Horcruxes with; the tired, weathered, wiser one.

"Well, it is my belief that both you, young Tom, and Gellert over here, need to learn how to form emotional bonds and express their thoughts in a more efficient way. I also think that the tradition of exchanging gifts during a joyful occasion is a brilliant opportunity for such bonds to form. It pushes people to think about the preferences and personalities of their loved ones, to try and understand them. It is, in a sense, an exercise in empathy, something both of you need. Also, it allows people to understand in a material way how much others care about them, and creates memorable moments. Think of it that way, my boy; I am financing your psychological rehabilitation, because I owe Harry Potter a favour, and I am repaying him by helping you, since he considers this his mission. Does that answer satisfy you?" Albus offers matter-of-factly, and Tom Riddle nods at the wizard seriously. He thinks deeply for a while, and then raises his eyes again.

"That is a great, well-thought answer. A logical one. Thank you, sir. I simply… Aren't five hundred galleons too much, taking into account a Hogwarts' teacher's salary?" Riddle presses on, and the only reason I am not getting worried about this conversation, is because I am actually finding his need to rationalise everything a little endearing, and I am sure Albus does, too.

"I have many sources of income. Such as my friend, Nicholas Flamel, and his Philosopher's Stone," He replies cheerily, almost naughtily, and Tom Riddle's eyes widen a bit. Apparently, the existence of that particular stone was not widely known back then, I deduce.

"A… Philosopher's Stone?" he repeats, his lips parted a little in suppressed awe, and although he remains, as usual, perfectly cool and composed, I sense a little glint of desire in his eyes. His thirst for immortality is still there, it seems. I did not expect it not to, of course. Such sickly obsessions do not fade away in a matter of days. Not even in a matter of years, sometimes. Nevertheless, I feel like intervening.

"You already tried to steal this particular stone in the future, Tom. I stopped you and killed one of your souls. I was eleven at the time, by the way. It wouldn't be wise to try again, now that I am twenty five and you do not even have a few Horcruxes to back you up yet," I mention coldly, and he freezes on the spot. A great thing about how warm and friendly I usually am, is that when I lower and harden my voice, it rarely ever goes unnoticed. The greed is extinguished from his eyes, but I do notice a short spike of resentment in there, directed to me. Well, I can understand that; he must feel humiliated when I mention things like that. For a second he stares at me with unfathomable anger pouring out through his eyes, but I manage to curve my lips into a bittersweet smile, and that seems to sooth him a bit.

"I'd only have borrowed it," He finally says, a weak attempt at humour, but also a sign of resignation. He takes a few steps towards me, and stands at my side, quietly. I have learned to translate his actions quite easily by now , and I know that what he is trying to do is discreetly recognise my authority and, for now at least, display obedience and earn my trust. What is most worrisome though, is that he has somehow managed to already earn it, in spite of my best judgment.

_I just like him too much, him and the hidden social awkwardness behind his charisma, his odd suspicions, his constant skepticism and his terror of anything sweet or colourful. __What a kid._

I smile at him. And then a retired German mass-murdered interrupts our bonding moment.

"Ya, ve know, dear. Mum just vants to make sure you don't get into trouble vor trying to become an immortal Lord," Gellert states mockingly and he offers me a playful look. Oddly enough, I find myself ticked off at being the one called a mother hen when Albus, overprotective and overbearing coot extraordinaire is actually in the same room. Nonetheless, I decide to keep my witty replies to myself, and simply grunt. But that annoying bastard just doesn't give up.

"You know, young Riddle, you shouldn't be zo disappointed. Zere are ozer vays of obtaining a… very large life span I could discuss vith you about. But I don't think Mum over zere vould approve, really," He relentlessly continues, and he really seems to be enjoying himself, his musical voice full f acrimony. Probably taking his revenge for the day I tricked him into underestimating me and won against him in a duel. Oh well, if he is simply going to carry on like that, I have no choice but to fight back. I am a Gryffindor after all, we are simply not known for getting irritated and not expressing it.

"So Gellert, is it you who tops or is it Albus? Just out of interest," I mutter, casually, and wrap my arm around the German wizard, who's eyes widen considerably and breath is cut short. A very strange sort of silence lingers in the air for a while, and Tom Riddle looks incredibly shocked at my having had the guts to say something like that aloud. Soon Albus is experiencing a sudden coughing fit, but his eyes are gleaming dangerously, and Gellert is muttering something about classified information, very, very angrily. Riddle decides that it is perhaps a good moment to change the subject.

"Diagon Alley's shops close at eight, right? Perhaps we should get going, shouldn't we?" he states calmly and dispassionately, and starts walking towards the door. Dumbledore immediately agrees, traumatised by the mere idea of not having the time to buy presents, since tomorrow is Sunday and the day after that is actually Christmas Eve. Gellert, cursing under his breath in German, follows. Well, despite these little conflicts, we do manage to coexist rather harmoniously.

When we reach Diagon Alley, we separate and agree to meet each other again in two hours, which should be enough time for even the most difficult shopper. It turns out to be a lot more fun that I would have guessed. Diagon Alley is a lot more fascinating and adventurous than it will be in the future.

* * *

By nighttime, I am actually really tired, both physically and mentally. The others, except from the auburn haired professor, also seem a little worn out, and thus we decide to sleep early today, after an unusually light and uncomplicated dinner. As I walk towards the guest room with Riddle following behind, I feel his eyes on me, persistent and intense, and I wonder whether there is something he is trying to tell me. While we transfigure our clothes into sleeping apparel, I actually decide to ask.

"Have you been meaning to talk about something?" I ask him, breaking the comfortable silence that has been developing between us. Although his perfect face, now once again back to it's normal, pale colour and it's unearthly, fully symmetrical shape, betrays no stress, his paling knuckles are giving his agitation away. He does not stare at me directly this time; instead, he turns his gaze away and onto the wall, emptying his eyes from all emotions. I note to myself that he would not behave like that unless there was something seriously troubling him.

He opens his mouth just a little, at some point, but he swiftly closes it again, and walks up to the window.

"It's nothing. I am simply being immature, I suppose," He says, in the end, his voice eerily homogenous and void. What thoughts is he having that are worthy of such meticulous hiding?

"I'm not buying it. I doubt you've ever been immature ever since your, what, sixth, seventh birthday?" I respond strongly, unwillingly to accept him dodging my question like that. I do know that his mental stability is rather fragile, but I simply cannot fully refrain from pushing him, and I deem that right now pushing him is necessary. Of course, he is clearly annoyed at my persistence, and yet… Yet I feel he _wants_ he to insist, to get help him get whatever is troubling him out of his system. In his own, twisted way, he is perhaps learning to share his feelings. Or so I'd like to believe.

"Spit it out. It can't be worse than killing my parents, most of my childhood friends and splitting your soul in seven pieces," I groan, and although I might sound like I'm annoying him, what I am trying to do is encourage him, and I trust him to be smart enough to understand the difference. He does. His face softens, and he pins his eyes into mine.

"After you have spent enough time with me, and, perhaps, no longer deem me a… menace to the world… will you return to your time? I am sure much will have changed, but I guess you will want to attempt to find the people that you might have cared about, no?" he says, and suddenly he is staring at the ceiling, avoiding to let his eyes meet my face, for perhaps they will reveal more than his detached, careful words do. Merlin forbid, Tom Riddle is feeling insecure, I observe to myself. But then I remind myself that he still but a child; of course he'd be afraid of losing something he only so recently acquired, something he's never had.

"No. The people I care about will never exist. There is no point in looking for them. The people I care about are here now," I say, and take a few steps towards the boy. He glares at me, slightly confused and perhaps even a little nervous at the rising intimacy of this situation, and then his face hardens.

"You are quite cynical, despite your warm and friendly behaviour, Harry. You so easily abandoned the ones you supposedly loved. Such emotional detachment is admirable. Are you sure you are the right person to show me how to care?" he whispers icily, and his body tenses a little as our frames approach.

_The people I loved abandoned me far before I abandoned them_, I muse inwardly, but I say nothing of it out loud. I simply smile; a hard, worn smile. When he calls me Harry, I know that he is meaning to insult me, and yet, unwillingly, he also reaches out for me.

"Am I the right person? Yes, definitely," I state quite calmly, and tilt my head a little. Gellert and Albus are all great fun, and these holidays are offering me a generous dose of comic relief. But my heart is always set on Tom Riddle, on my mission, out of which I have made a reason to live. A mission that is now the sole thing fueling my will to carry out with my troublesome, tiring existence, and one that has turned into a genuine, strong emotional bond. At least on my side.

My heart is never free of the shadow of Voldemort. My mind and dreams will forever be haunted by blood, by horror, by dismembered, ravaged corpses and by the glassy, lifeless and accusing eyes of my loves ones. And yet I have somehow managed, in ways even I don't fully understand, to tame my mind and feelings, to keep myself sane, and to retain my ability to love, freely and abundantly.

"Definitely." I repeat, confidently.

"Just… Don't give me things you'll take away," He quietly mutters, and his jaw clenches a little, causing a small muscle in his cheek to tighten. I would almost not have noticed it, if I didn't know where to look.

"I won't," The words roll out of my mouth sounding flat and neutral, and yet it is a great commitment that I am actually sealing with these simple words, and we both know that. Suddenly, my own insecurities grip me, too. The truth is, I've never had a proper family, one I managed to keep for long. And the truth is that I am also craving for someone to share my meaningless, dull routine with, someone that can mean something to me. Deep down, I am afraid of eventually loving this boy more than he, with his cold, damaged soul, could ever love me. And I truly fear than one day, I might mean nothing to him, and he might laugh at my face, perhaps kill me even, as he begins his quest for power and immortality.

_In the very depths of my heart, I am still uncertain of whether anything Tom Riddle has ever shown me is real._

Perhaps he is too much of a monster already, and has been carefully manipulating my protective, caring nature from the start. Appearing to be vulnerable just when he has to, showing just enough weakness to earn my trust and…

But I can't let myself think that way. There is no point, for if he is already so far gone that he is able to stage such a long, detailed act, then there can be no salvation for him. And once more, we'll duel against one another, and one of us will die. But I simply can't let myself think that way. I have to believe that what I am doing matters, and that what is being built between Tom and I is real, is strong.

"Tom, I have a similar request, as well," I call for him while he unfolds his sheets, preparing to slide into his bed. He turns around, looking a little surprised by the soft, pleading tone of my voice. It even surprises me when it echoes inside the room so gently, to be honest.

"Don't accept things from me if you sincerely believe you will never be willing to try and give them back. I'd rather avoid invest myself in a… lie. A travesty of a human connection, a pretense sustained only for as long as it is in some way profitable," I explain, and the words refuse to come out of my mouth, so I actually have to put quite a bit of effort into uttering them. Riddle's eyebrows, as elegant as the lineart of some Art Nouveau print, arch a little, and his lower lip drops.

"You are actually frightened that you might… develop an attachment for me that will be… one sided? That I might one day stab you in your sleep? Merlin. You can Apparate into Hogwarts. You can alter magical cores. And you are nervous about the possible emotional rejection of a teenage psychopath you are trying to adopt?" he whispers, laughing nervously, too nervously.

He then continues, his eyes suddenly shining with fear and panic.

"You are not… too bright, are you? If this is scaring _you, _can you imagine what it does to me? Have you any idea how I felt when I cast that cursed _Ager Curam_? My betrayal would hurt you. Do you know what your betrayal would do to _me_? I am giving you the power to _destroy_ me, by caring about you. You could destroy me. No one else could really harm me, but you... _you could._" His intense, loud speech disintegrates into panting. A small vein on his forehead is pulsing wildly, and sweat is gleaming on his hauntingly beautiful face.

"I know all of that, believe me. But it doesn't make me any less afraid of losing the people I care for. No matter how many wars I've seen, how many friends I've buried, I could never manage to shield myself from emotional grief, you know. It's just how I am. I can never get used to losing people," I whisper gently, and am shocked with myself, with how naturally this confession is flowing out of me, of how brave I am. Our eyes lock once again, and the only thing I can read in his is that one of my previous assumptions is wrong.

He is definitely not a child. His eyes are not a child's eyes.

"If you can manage to admit so openly into the face of your supposed nemesis the nature of your deepest emotional insecurities, than I am sure you will manage to earn my devotion. It can't be harder," He says, and his voice is different than it has ever been. It is low, hoarse, rich and completely adult. "Just don't abandon me, if you take me in. Or I swear I'll kill you." He concludes, menacingly but desperately, his tone frighteningly smooth.

His words catch me completely unprepared, and my mouth turns dry. I'd never expected heavy, merciless concepts such as love to leave his parted lips, especially so closely followed by a death threat. I am almost convinced I have misheard; only I know I haven't. He is a boy, I remind myself, a boy no older than fourteen, and yet his eyes are darker than a tempest, dangerous and ensnaring. All this time, what I had been apprehensive about was growing to care about him as a parent, only to see him turn his back on me, rejecting me.

But right now, what I am even more afraid of is the tension I can feel between us. A tension thick and alarming, of an entirely different kind. A wrong kind.

In his eyes, I see _desire_.

And with desire, I see Voldemort.

"Go to sleep." I finally say, and flee towards the warmth of my bed. Once again, I feel younger than I should, lost and intimidated by the twisted, magnificent soul that is Tom Riddle. He might be insecure, and hurt, and confused, and yet… and yet he is simply a natural predator, even now, even as a child, and the nature of the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable. And yet now that he hurts, that he changes and faces his worst demons, I know just how frail and vulnerable he is, and just how difficult this foreign emotion must be to him.

What do I do?

What _should_ I do?

What do I _want_ to do?

He is beautiful, and he is captivating, and the only person in this distant, alien past that I have truly managed to connect with. But he is a child. A fragile, damaged child of fourteen. An unstable, incomplete mind.

I will ignore this. I must. He might have been able to attract to himself anyone he has ever wanted to, but I will not follow the trend. I have a mission to fulfill.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

Even a blind child with mental disabilities would have been able to notice that since the short but undeniably intense conversation Potter and I shared last night, the… air hovering between us has been becoming increasingly thick and heavy, almost palpable. And since both Tumble-floor and his intimate guest are considerably more able than such a child in the mental department, it has been rather obvious to them, as well. As far as I can see though, they seem to believe that some sort of verbal conflict must have occurred between us, giving birth to this uneasiness, which they must consider a passing phase of hostility. Of course, I know just why our communication seems to be so strained today. Potter has, it appears, realised I am experiencing some measure of attraction towards him, and is probably very uncertain about he should react to his discovery.

And Morgana's eyeballs be cursed into oblivion, his behaviour is, for the first time in my life, making me truly nervous.

"Aha! Qveen to D6!" exclaims Gellert triumphantly, staring at the chessboard as if he has just discovered Radium, and the Transfigurations' Master subsequently starts massaging his own temples while mentally calculating something that, according to my guess, probably involves a bishop.

"Reckless move, Gel. We are not children anymore, you know. Bishop to E5." The auburn haired wizard serenely replies, his voice and movements gentle and slow, but his eyes twinkling in a very creepy manner, that I would not like to be stared at with, despite the fact that Grindelwald does not seem to matter. What he does seem to matter though, is his partner's move, and he grits his teeth angrily while rubbing his rather ridiculous goatee between two elongated fingers.

"Vell, vell. You leave me vith no ozer choice, ya? Pawn to…" their chess related conversation fades out of my mental focus, since I honestly feel like a voyeur when I watch them play; despite the fact that nothing in the way they play suggests the fact they are actually lovers, there is something very intimate about their moves. I turn my head around with a graceful movement and I stare at Potter, who is sitting on the opposite side of the dining table, reading the Daily Prophet is an exaggeratedly fascinated way. Suddenly, I get up and leave the living room hurriedly, and for a reason I cannot accurately describe, I feel irked and shaken.

Twisting the doorknob violently, I make my way into the large guest bathroom, lock the door behind me and swiftly undress, simultaneously removing any glamour charm placed on my milky thighs or damaged toes. I then proceed to quickly transfiguring the small, somewhat kitch bathroom mirror into a rather impressive, full-body one, which I carefully levitate and finally place before my nude form; a body lean and pale, which I take the time, for the first time ever, to attentively, scrupulously inspect. As my eyes move along the smooth lines of my frame, I absorb a truth that I have rather vaguely been aware of since I was a mere child; I am truly, undeniably gorgeous.

My skin is soft, pallid and alluring, in perfect contrast with my dark, silken hair, and my body is lean, elegant and flowing, almost like an Alphonse Mucha painting. Mesmerised for a moment by the tempting reflection of my own, eerie perfection and lost in the exquisite symmetry of my angular shoulders and the appeal of my protruding hip-bones, I almost fail to notice a very important flaw. And it is not the odd smoothness of my damaged thighs I am referring to, nor is it the little stub that might once have been a toe. These scars might be appalling to me, but I do know that in the light of my blinding delicacy and grace, they would pass unnoticed even by the most demanding observer.

The fact is, I am not a man yet. I am a boy.

And so the reason for Potter's oddly distanced behaviour finally dawns on me, and I realise that even though he _must_ be experiencing a certain degree of attraction for me (his eyes, at times, watch me in a way that leaves no doubt in my mind), there is indeed a good reason why he wouldn't want to acknowledge the fact I have been trying to approach him. In his eyes, I am a child; and since his ethics are one set of rules he piously abides to, this means he would allow himself to, under any circumstance, view me as an object of desire. Isn't it ironic that the only individual I might find it interesting to try and share any sort of intimacy with is also the only one who can manage to keep himself from desiring me?

I swiftly redress, annul my transfiguration and re-apply my glamour charms, before I quietly exit the bathroom, returning to the living room and resuming my former seat, at the opposite side of the table compared to Potter's calm and handsome form. The silence is defeaning.

Later, at dinner, I let my cool fingers linger on his calloused hand a little longer than they should as he passes me the salt, and out eyes immediately meet.

_I **know** what you are doing, and you should be doing it_, his are saying, loudly and clearly with their beautiful green steadiness and their commanding hue, but I decide to ignore them nonetheless, and I deliberately delay the removal of my fingers just a little longer.

Just long enough to convey my conscious disobedience. And yet this whole diplomatic incident, intense and electrifying, seems to have happened in a universe inhabited only by me and Potter; Grindelwald and Auburn-sore just keep consuming nutrients obliviously.

* * *

Later even, when the loony professor and his dark escort decide to take a romantic walk outside, probably looking for an opportunity to engage in lewd activities, Potter and I steal the chessboard all for ourselves, and surprisingly enough, he wordlessly hands me the white set, a small smirk playing on his naturally red lips. Expecting to vanquish him rather easily, since he is not quite at the same level as the rest of us in the theoretical brilliance department, I find myself pleasantly surprised when I discover him to be a very challenging and resilient opponent.

"Hermione?" I ask him at some point, poking fun of the fact that he generally attributes every single one of his successes to his female friend from the future, and I shoot a playful stare towards his general direction.

"Ron. Ronald Weasley," He replies, casually, and I am irritated to find that he is not even bothering to lift his eyes, and that therefore my playful stare has gone completely and utterly unnoticed.

"Is there anything impressive you have managed to achieve without the help of your amazing friends?" I question, and although I mean my remark to sound teasing, it comes out rather poisonous and resentful, much to my own surprise, something which causes him to lift his head from the chessboard.

"Yes. Making amazing friends," he answers without much hesitation, and I realise that although his response might initially sound like a witty little trick, he is actually making a rather good point, and exhibiting a sound argument. At the same time, he is also moving his knight in the way that I was actually least expecting, causing my to revert my attention to the actual game instead of the green man's highly appealing eyes.

In the end, I win. Without much difficulty, really, but with a lot more difficulty than I would have liked to, a fact which causes me to try and underline my victory by actually declaring it.

"I win," I state with proud finality, although I am rather sure that Potter has noticed that fact long before I actually decided to kindly point it out, and I offer him a small smile, both arrogant and flirtatious; but especially flirtatious, and consciously so.

"Aright," He replies, and his indifference is truly, utterly unnerving; although I do think I sense an odd bitterness in his voice, an emotion that is most unexpected. He gets up and starts walking towards the general direction of our common room without even informing me of his intentions, so I actually stop him by placing my body before him, and pin his hard with my eyes, nearly causing him to flinch.

"What is it, Tom?" he asks wearily, his bright eyes suddenly dull and tired, his body strangely tense; I feel his magic, powerful and elegant, creating an invisible, intangible wall between us, and that really irritates me.

"Why are you going away?" I inquire, sharply, and I am sure that he knows I am not simply asking about his current trajectory towards the guest rooms, but his general behaviour since our emotionally charged talk the other night.

"Because what we were doing before, creating a bond, sharing, improving, it mattered to me. And now you are simply playing a goddamn game, Tom. The game of wanting something simply because it hasn't been offered to you, like everything else has. You're fucking this up, and you are going to end up hurting yourself with your reckless arrogance. And probably hurting me as well," He states calmly but venomously, and it finally occurs to me that my discreet advances towards him are, to his eyes, the same twisted manipulation game I have so often played in front of him against weaker, easier opponents; he is misunderstanding me.

"I am not playing that game. You would have noticed if you weren't unwilling to actually see that," I shout after him, but he doesn't turn around. Overcoming my pride, my arrogance and my inflated ego, I actually run into the corridors and follow him; and against my better judgement, it did hurt me to be accused of "fucking this up", and I feel the irrepressible need to prove that what has been happening between us, what has been developing, was not an intentional strategy on my part. I simply couldn't help it.

* * *

Potter's PoV

"I am not playing that game. You would have noticed if you weren't unwilling to actually see that," He shouts after me, and to my surprise, I hear his footsteps closely behind me. Chasing after someone must truly be an overwhelming compromise for someone as proud as he is. His gesture is admirable, I note to myself.

Perhaps there is more to his behaviour than simply trying to obtain something because it presents a tempting challenge. But I don't want there to be, because if there is, I will have to decide what to do about it.

About this tension.

I'd love to be able to ignore it, really, but I don't have the luxury to remain happily oblivious and willingly blind when Riddle himself is forcing me to acknowledge what I have been trying to omit. An attraction is slowly beginning to bloom between us, I realise, feeling terrified, and it is most probably the most inconvenient, perilous, foolish, ugly thing that could be happening. Tom Riddle must have noticed it far before I ever did, it occurs to me. This is why he is truly so panic-stricken, so unstable; this is what he was trying to make me see. This is simply too unnatural. Merlin help me.

_You could destroy me__, _he'd said yesterday.

_I am opening myself to you. I am wanting you. And this is a weapon you could slay me with, _was what he didnt't say, but it is what I now translate his words into.

Words that echo in my mind, and suddenly they do make a lot more sense, and I know exactly what he meant not only by this particular phrase, but with all of his actions last night. It is the first time that he has ever allowed himself such vulnerability, and an outright rejection would probably devastate him, even if he kept his face perfectly cool and his body perfectly composed. He is scared.

And yet, he is merely a fourteen year old boy, while I am a grown man, and quite possibly will be his guardian. I cannot be… blackmailed into allowing a young sociopath to experiment with his newfound desires on me, simply because he will be upset if I don't. By trying to avoid hurting him, I am pushed into allow him to allow me to take advantage of him, possibly hurting him even more. It's unacceptable.

Whatever this... tension is, I will force it to wait. For a very long time, probably.

I enter the room and simply stand there, in the middle of it, hearing the boy's footsteps approaching. My heart is beating fast, I suddenly notice, and somehow this shocks me. All this time, I have been thinking about how Tom Riddle might feel, what he might be doing, what his intentions might be, what he could be trying to achieve. I have completely forgotten to question myself about what _I_ actually feel. Perhaps it was, subconsciously, a very deliberate omission.

I am trying to avoid admitting to myself that this boy… Even I am not immune to him.

_Merlin, he is so beautiful. So brilliant. _

_Since when am I fuckin' attracted to bloody boys, anyway? Curse that manipulative little shit._

I unwillingly imagine what it would be like, pushing him against a wall and kissing him, and while my mind is desperately screaming for the image to go away, my body is begging for it to stay.

I then realise that I have been staring at the wall for the longest time, dazed and frozen, no words coming out of my mouth, while Riddle simply stares at me silently. He is right behind me, and the urge to do something about it overwhelmes me. Instead, I defend myself with words.

"The sole reason we are experiencing this is because we are both in a situation where we have very few people around that we can manage to respect. It is a natural reaction to solitude. The only reason you believe yourself to be feeling that kind of attraction is because you have simply never had the opportunity to be physically and emotionally close with anyone else but me. I am the target of this natural teenage symptom simply because there is no one else around you that could have been. It's not actually real," I explain to Tom Riddle softly, unsure of my own words but desperate to throw this menacing situation out of the way. The blood is coursing through my veins faster than it should, and his face is simply too perfect.

He stares at me, coldly, and then he laughs. He is angry, I notice. Furious even.

"Rationalising in order to ignore reality, right? An excellent strategy. Isn't it me who is supposed to be playing that part, Potter? Not even you believe what you just said. You are terribly brave, in general, I'll give you that, but look at you now. You are afraid of me, I see it in your eyes. I feel it through our connection. You are afraid of this, and so you rationalise and toss it aside like some kind of children's disease," He yells at me sharply, and his words sting his knives, and burn.

"I am the boy that could become Lord damn Voldemort, Harry. And you are fully aware of the fact that I never had a childhood. I've killed. I've tortured. Why should't I be able to feel lust? I am serious about this. I don't even fucking _know_ how to be anything else than serious," He concludes, and his magic is intense and sharp, surrounding him possessively, agressively. Tom Riddle never swears, generally; that much I have noticed after having spent so much time with him. And so I conlude that the emotions he is experiening must be very intense.

"Tom… You are_ fourteen_ years old," I reply, weakly.

"I know. And it's the bane of my existence. But don't you dare pretend that when I whisper in your ear, you don't want to turn around and grab me. You owe me more honesty than that," He spits at me, and his eyes are on fire, his cheeks flushed. I step back, completely lost for words, and I simply don't know how to react to his sudden assault.

"Everyone experiences some measure of attraction for you, Riddle. You are ridiculously, criminally attractive. It doesn't…" I try to defend myself, but he simply won't let me. The truth is, I am physically much stronger than he is. Much, much stronger, and faster, too. Quidditch does that to people. And I can't help myself but think how easy it would be to push his small, grateful frame into the wall and offer him what he is so ardently demanding.

But Merlin, he is **Tom **bloody** Marvolo Riddle **and what a mess that would create, and what a catastrophe, what a disaster of mythical proportions it could eventually lead to. I shudder at the mere thought.

"It doesn't mean I necessarily…" I try to continue. He interrupts me.

"It does. I know that everyone desires me one way or another, whatevere the degree. But it is simply because they have no idea who I actually am. What they desire is the mask I wear, the façade, and if they could see behind it, they'd run away in fear. But you, you see _me. _And yet are still here, and you still see something attractive in me, despite my twisted mind, my scars, my... sickness. So why the hell you are you rejecting what I am offering you? I know you desire it. I am no idiot, Potter," he finishes, and his voice is losing its last shreds of composure, and it cracks. His eyes are gleaming red, and suddenly I realise that I just did what I promise never to do. I rejected him. I gave him something, allowed him to take something from me and then, upon realising what it truly was, tried to take away. He is so fragile, I tell myself, so unstable.

Dark magic is swirling around him now. A kind of magic I would recognise anywhere.

And so I know beyong any doubt that he is about to have an irreversible meltdown, that he is ready to crack under the simultaneous pressure of his emotional confusion and his desire to cause pain.

_I am about to create Voldemort. Over a base adolescent crush._

Alarmed and unwilling to let this turning point occur, I run to him urgently and crush him into my arms, trying to save him from his own rising anger and hatred. I push his body against my own hard, holding onto his childish build until the rage withdraws. Eventually, it does, and though this moment is disturbing and dangerous in so many ways, I can't prevent myself from enjoying the fact I am holding him against me.

_Merlin curse me. I didn't sign up for this. It was supposed to be a filial thing._

_Not this._

When he lifts his head, his sculpted face is so close to mine and it's pulling me in so strongly, that there is simply no way for me to deny to myself just how attractive Tom Riddle is. And yet, my will is strong, and I know that I cannot throw my plans, my morals, my goals away simply because this young student happens to be so terribly irresistible. I need to save him, and sleeping with him during his most vulnerable, confused state would not be the way to go about achieving this.

And so I **don't** kiss him. He **doesn't** kiss me, either.

* * *

Instead, he speaks.

"As much as I hate that fact, I am, technically, indeed fourteen, and there is no possible way I can change this for now. I'll accept that as a viable excuse, because I know you think you'd be taking advantage of my state of psychological healing, my moments of weakness and my lack of experience. But I won't always be fourteen, and I won't always be so vulnerable. And I know that. And you know that," He mutters darkly, almost like a menace, when it's actually meant to be a promise of sorts. He continues.

"I have been the object of many people's desire, you know, and I have used that fact to my benefit many times. I have learned just how to be tempting and enticing. If I had any less respect for you, I could already have you pinning me down your bed. But if I am too young and too possibly confused for your morally upright tastes, I'll wait. Being willing to **not** get what I want, that's something I'd do only for you. But I can promise that while we live together, I'll make you bitterly regret how… ethical you are," He hisses a little sadistically, and I am shocked by just how sexual this goddamn _child _sounds, and how he sends shivers down my spine.

His voice, velvet-coated, talking about _being pinned down my bed_. I am almost about to groan.

I don't. Men are not animals. We are not helpless in the face of temptation, you know.

And I am still an adult, a wizard more powerful than he is, and a man that's stronger in both body and spirit. I need to take control of this situation again.

"I'll just have to suffer then. We are both too damaged right now. And we will be for a long time. You are naïve if you do not see that, and how possibly disastrous the results of what you seek would be. I am… well… not denying the fact you are attractive to me. But these are very dangerous grounds you want to tread on, young boy, and they are grounds I know much better than you do. I've pinned quite a few people down my bed before, Tom. You haven't. So trust me with this, please," I tell him, having regained my confidence, my strength and my resolve, and I throw him a strong, domineering glare. His own predatory gaze deflates.

"A chaste touch on the lips. I am ready for that much, no?" He mutters nonetheless, with a light smirk on his lips, as a final resistance. But now I have already won, and I have this situation under control once more, so I have no trouble denying him his wish this time.

"No, you aren't. And neither am I. Goodnight," I reply, with finality. The fact that _I_ could also not be ready to follow that sort of direction hadn't occurred to him, I notice, and now that it does, it plunges him deep into thought.

It's best that way, and I simply hope he will forgive me for wounding his pride so deeply if I am quick to show him my affection in different ways. If our lips met, I doubt it would stop there. He wouldn't let it, and I don't trust myself with resisting his surreal beauty, either. He has on me the effect a Veela has on men. Well, on most men, since Veelas never really had an effect on me, I inwardly add.

Which is actually rather curious, I realise, since Veela magic is meant to be exceedingly powerful.

Have I been homosexual all this damned time?

(_No wonder my relationships with women have been so lacking and disastrous... _One_ mystery solved...)_


	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: Harry Potter's body is his own! He can CHOOSE whether to shave his legs or not, whether to pierce his skin or dye his hair. Let's free ourselves from patriarchic oppression! Flower power my comrades!

A/N: Wooooh. Another difficult week. And yet, here comes the chapter! A little note to my reviewers though: half of you were frustrated that Harry did not allow the slash to happen yet, and half of you were upset with me speeding up my pace. Seriously, stop confusing me. You're like: You're going too slow, speed up... No no, too fast, relax! There wait, you're procrastinating, make it happen already! What, not yet! My brain is turning to mush.

To The Silver Fallen: Glad you liked it. And yeah, I was aiming for a reminder of how young Riddle is, despite the fact he tries so hard to be in control, and despite the fact he is so cynical about society and human relationships.

To Diemonkieran: I fixed the one you mentioned, and will try to be more careful with those in the future. Thank you for your compliments though, they make me blush.

To Pouf: I am endlessly grateful to you for telling me that I managed to make that scene work, in spite of how early it happened. I needed to hear that, seriously.

To Violet Snowflake: Yes, indeed, it is too early for them, and they know that. I just hate stories that go boy-uses-boyish-charms-on-man and then, just like that, man-immediately-succumbs-despite-conscience-issues .

To Rubedo Jr: We will eventually find out what they bought for one another, don't worry. All in due time. As for your hunch, I wouldn't say that something was missing, really. It's just that it was chapter that I did not look forward to writing; simply a necessary transition needed for the continuation of my plot.

To ForgottenTales: Yes, you are right. My Harry is not a Super!Harry. He is still victim to some of the most obvious weaknesses that his younger, canon!self suffered from. He is insecure, morally conflicted, not as intelligent as he'd like to be and most importantly, starved for a family/love. Of course, he is also awesome, powerful and amazing. But that's irrelevant.

* * *

Chapter 32

Riddle s PoV

And so Harry Potter bids me goodnight cooly, slips into his bed and, tucking himself inside the large, wooly blanket, he turns his back at me, presumably ready to drift to sleep. But even as he non-verbally casts the light out, I still stand there, like some kind of mentally challenged animal, staring blankly at the empty spot he left behind, the empty spot that lies so cruelly before my feet. When I eventually manage to force my body to move back and towards my own bed, the green man's breathing has already become perfectly regular, his back moving softly at the inaudible rhythm of his respiratory system. I briefly wonder whether he has really managed to fall asleep so easily, so effortlessly after this surreal confrontation of ours, or if he is simply pretending in order to avoid any further verbal exchanges; either way, it doesn't matter.

Even half an hour later, deep into the silent, mercilessly empty night, a strange pain is occasionally stinging me from within my chest; an ache that I fail to identify and suppress, keeping my restless and awake until I finally decide to stop trying. And thus, as quietly as I possibly can, which is pretty much silently seeing as I have a spectacular control over my physical body, I get out of my warm but unwelcoming bed and away from the guest room, with Nagini nesting securely underneath my clothes.

Since Tumble-boar has placed an extraordinary variety insanely powerful wards around his humble home, many of which also prevent anyone from leaving the residence without dispelling them first, I have no choice but to remain inside the house. Alone, I sit in the soundless darkness of the empty living room, a gentle but chilling breeze entering from a half-opened window and slipping underneath my sleeping robes, caressing my cold body and blowing my perfectly combed hair into my face. At first, I feel completely hollow, dry, devoid of any kind of emotion, any kind of thought; I imagine my mindscape to be an endless wasteland, destroyed, forsaken and lifeless.

But after a few hours of letting my eyes wonder aimlessly into the starless sky outside the window, I gradually begin to dig into myself, discovering a disgraceful amount of emotional pain, hidden safely underneath my vacant heart. It s a feeling that I cannot exactly explain, on, in fact, cannot explain to any degree whatsoever, for nothing has happened that could possibly earn that kind of response from me. Harry Potter did not actually reject my admittedly indecent and rather embarrassing advances; he actually went as far as admitting to finding me criminally attractive, and seeing as he rarely ever uses additional words to underline his adjectives, let alone such flashy ones, he must be victim of a rather strong desire.

_He wants this; whether he has made his peace with it or not, he wants this. I have seen it._

Rewinding our conversation inside my mind, I actually realise that he did more than just unveil his attraction to me; he went as far as expressing his emotional insecurities, and he even phrased his objections in such a way as to suggest that his succumbing to me is simply a matter of time. The green man, in spite of his impressive power, his unbelievable, epical life and his aura of invincibility, is no more immune to my exquisite grace than any other man. The right words, whispered in the right manner and accompanied by the right smirk, can light the familiar fire of hunger even behind these unique, inimitable green eyes, his dangerous, stoic Avada Kedavra orbs.

So why is it that I feel this_ sadness_?

* * *

"Why am feeling like thisss?" I whisper to no one in particular, but oddly enough my words come out in parseltongue, sounding much like a long, melancholic hiss, and I therefore draw the conclusion that I must have subconsciously addressing myself to my familiar.

"Beaussse you made a missstake," She replies softly from within my sleeping gown, and she slowly slithers up my torso until she is resting her head lightly upon my neck, her cool scales pressing against my skin. I carefully wrap my hands around her terribly young and delicate body and I remove her from there, placing her upon a cushion that I find on Dwabble-roar s sofa so that I may stare into her serpentine eyes as we converse.

"Why would you sssay ssso dearesst familiar?" I inquire, and although I try to sound only mildly interested in what Nagini might have to say, I discover myself to be rather perturbed by her assessment of my move being a mistake, and rather anxious to know the reasons behind her judgment. She lifts her elegant, regal head a little, pinning me with her topaz eyes and their thin, sharp slits, and then she tilts, perhaps expressing interest or amusement.

"Becausse you did. Potter sseemss to consssider greed and lusst to be a very shallow, petty feelings, you know. Feelingss of no value. Ssso if he thinksss that what thisss isss what pullsss you to him, your desssire to posssesss ssomething preciouss, he will obviousssly be disssappointed. After all, he quite genuinely cares for you," She explains, her thin little tongue flickering swiftly in and out of her mouth, while I listen to her quite carefully, analysing her insightful arguments.

"I ssee. I remember him mentioning Voldemort'ss tendency to collect. Quite an obssesssion my future sself sseemed to have developed with treassuress, anything rare or interesssting. He mussst think our converssation to suggesst that what I feel for him is sssimply the wisssh to _own him, _to control sssomething I deem worthy. That I am attracted to him sssolely due to hiss power," I mutter, more to myself than to my familiar actually, my own conclusions echoing inside my head, rendering my confused and pensive.

"Iss thisss not the reassson you are attracted to him?" the snakeling hisses, and I hear quite a hefty amount of sarcasm in her voice, something which, combined with her question itself, succeeds in upsetting me a little. The questions rolls around inside my mind unanswered for a long, agonising moment, and I suddenly feel disappointed with my own self, for being unable to deny Nagini's slightly debasing suggestion.

_Good point, my beautiful little viper._

"I don't know," I finally reply, hesitantly, almost afraid that these words might signify my complete humiliation, but the snake does not throw any venomous comment at me, despite the earlier sharpness of her critism; she merely stares at me sympathetically, and she seems thoughtful.

"Jusst don't do anything ssstupid, young Massster. Do not dimish and debassse the bond you have with the time-traveler, he iss an excsseptional wizard, and he isss fond of you," Nagini recommends rather dispassionately, but I, being rather observant, can still discern the affection in her voice, and the fact that she does indeed are about whatever may happen to me. She then proceeds to leaping off her cushion in a mildly impressive, for a limbless reptile, manner, and then slithers back into the warm intimacy of the space between my clothing and flesh, signaling the end of our conversation.

Strangely enough, this small verbal exchange does help me put some order into the suppressed chaos buried underneath the haunting emptiness of my mind, allowing me to better comprehend Harry Potter s bitter reaction to my attempting to draw him to me. _You're fucking this up_, he had told me, and at the time I could not understand what he had been accusing me of; but now, as the crude, reproachful, hard words roll off my tongue quietly and linger inside the empty room, I come to realise the meaning behind them.

He'd been holding me accountable of cheapening whatever connection there is between us.

_Merlin, I really did make a mistake, injecting a sexual nuance into our interactions. How unlike me_.

* * *

I slowly distance myself from the window, momentarily disappointed by the loss of that lovely, cold breeze that had been causing my skin to prickle, and I oddly enough decide to take a shower, which a rather irrational and senseless reaction. I slide into the bathroom without lighting any light, afraid I might spoil the exquisite but pale light of the waning moon, which offers the outlines of objects a faint, ghostly glow, and I remove my clothing with a sharp flick of the wand.

When the cold water comes into contact with my skin, I almost groan at its biting temperature, but, although I automatically lift my hand towards the warm water valve in order to spare myself the suffering, I decide against it; perhaps a physical shock will be helpful in ridding me of my worries. For a few pleasant seconds, the intense sensation of freezing water streaming down my sensitive torso does indeed wipe all thoughts off my aching mind, allowing me to feel nothing but the reaction of my neurons to the cold. Before lond though, doubt starts creeping back into my mind, shattering my temporary relief and filling me with anxiety and unanswered questions.

_Am I attracted to him solely due to his power?_

A simple question, really, one that I should be able to answer without much trouble, since I pride myself for being an analytical and prudent individual; and yet, my mind is reeling desperately, no answer comes to me, no revelation. Despite being a Slytherin by blood and sorting, I am actually an endotherm as far as biology goes, and so, in an attempt to thermoregulate itself physiologically, my body begins to shiver a little, and my teeth almost start chattering. I get out of the shower, feeling my very being turning numb from the overwhelming algidity, and cast a quick drying charm over my perfect, porcelain body, which appears almost translucent under the faint moonlight.

_Is my attraction to him simply a symptom of my greed and my need to dominate those around me?_

Once I am dressed again, I make my way towards the guestroom, quietly, trying to concentrate on my surroundings rather than the recurring thoughts dancing pitilessly inside my head, only to find the green man waiting for me just beside the door, fully awake. I stare at him for a few seconds, feeling strangely humiliated, as if I were caught doing something I was banned from doing, despite the fact that my actions were in no way shameful or immoral; and as I stare I notice that his expression is oddly stern, but also simultaneously affectionate.

"I was worried," he says, breaking the silence, and his eyes, bright even in the middle of a dark room, crawl right into my soul, but not before lingering a little on the wetness of my hair, questioningly.

"I felt the irrepressible urge to have a shower," I offer a little flatly. "Sorry," I add, feeling that perhaps it is appropriate to add an apology there, yet not really understanding why that would be, since I did not harm Potter in any way by showering at night.

"Alright. Let's go back to sleep," he responds after a few moments of slightly awkward thoughfulness, his stare still betraying suspicion and concern which he is obviously unwilling to express in a verbal manner; then he smiles a little, an expression strained and bittersweet. Suddenly I realise just how grave my mistake was, and just how horrible the consequences of my ridiculous little advances might be; his smile is no longer the same, there is no openness, no warmth to be seen.

He still cares about me, only now he is reserved, distant, guarded against me, having seen something in me that reminded him of the monster I could be, perhaps even the monster I already am.

"I didn't ...mean to destroy anything. Don't resent me for my thoughtless actions. I probably did... _fuck it up_, as you so crudely put it, but it wasn't my intention. I apologise," I tell him, and even though my voice comes out collected and controlled, somewhere inside my ribcage I can feel the words shaking a little, for I am afraid of losing what me and him have come to have. He does not immediately reply to my plea, and although I'd been expecting his expression to either soften or harden, it does neither; he simply stares at me, his handsome features unreadable and hard.

"A few years from now, you slept with an old woman just to steal a few powerful artifacts from her. Before that, you seduced a teacher into revealing to you the secret behind the creation of a Horcrux. I can recognise greed when I see it, Riddle. Especially in your eyes. It glints _red_," he speaks calmly but a little detachedly, and I find myself averting my eyes away, his words striking a sensitive chord in me, accusing me and pushing me away.

"I am not him," I say, for it's the only defence I can find to protect myself with, and yet I am still unable to return his steady, hard glare; instead, I fix my eyes onto his lips, waiting for a reply.

"Obsessing over power games will make you him," He counters, and even though his words are a little cruel, and even though his weathered face could not look any less friendly, I find my eyes oddly drawn to his angular jawline, his broad shoulders and his wild, dark coif.

"If power truly does corrupt, you should be more of a Dark Lord than I am yet," I say, a little too lightly, trying to make my point while perhaps adding a note of humour, in a slightly failed attempt to break the uneasy tension between us.

"Being powerful was never my goal," he says, and I am sure he is being quite truthful with me, not only beause he seems to be sincere both by nature and nurture, but also beause his eyes have nothing to hide right now, meeting mine with artlessness and candour. A thought slowly takes shape inside my mind, like a fetus inside a mother's womb, but I am rather uncertain on how to express myself, how to give a verbal nature to the information I desire to convey.

"Power is... I will not deny the fact that I am drawn to it. But it's not what... There's more about you that I find intruiging other than your raw magical power and impressive past," I end up uttering somewhat hesitantly, and I dearly hope he can discern the veracity in my statement and thus, putting his distrust behind us, find his lost boldness and receptivity. His face does indeed soften a little at my clumsy explanation.

"My Quidditch toned abdomen perhaps?" he asks, and his visage breaks into a grin; a familiar grin, one I have been acquainted to before and one I am very relieved to meet again, for it means that I have not irreversibly broken our budding connection, as I fear I had.

We are back into familiar ground once more: he is being a bold and humourous Gryffindor and I am being a cool and sarcastic snake. All's well.

"Amongst other things..." I mumble, faking shyness in a highly exaggerated manner as I drop my eyes to the ground, only to occasionally peak up towards his face again, hoping to find a smile. And a smile I find indeed.

The atmosphere between us is partially restored for now, or so I hope, despite this delicate, conniving, subtle tension, hiding behind our most innocent words, ready to pull us into dangerous, uncertain grounds. Nevertheless, as I finally slide into the warmth of my bed, a dark thought is relentlessly twisting inside my agitated mind, keeping my pitilessly awake: How much like Voldemort am I already? How much of him does the green man already see in me?

_Would I torture?_

_Would I seduce?_

_Would I kill?_

_Could I?_

_I am not sure I couldn't._

And it's frightening me, this sense of not knowing what I am, of tiptoeing on the verge of something terrible, of not being able to reconcile all the different things I house within myself; enough to keep me rolling in my sheets for hours, uncomfortably.

* * *

Potter's PoV

Having lived through a war, I am quite a light sleeper. Constant vigilence, a friend used to say. And so I wake up for the fourth time, jumping alert into a dueling position, only to find Riddle swirling inside his bed. Again. He must really not be comfortable with me after what transpired between us, I deduce. Perhaps I was too hard on him, pointing out Voldemort's sins like that, and comparing them to his. I slowly approach his bed, thinking he is perhaps having a nightmare. He isn't. When he turns his body around once more and we come face to face, his eyes are open.

"Are you alright?" I ask him, genuinely concerned. His featured betray exhaustion. He is not having a great night. Even though he did express his attraction to me in a domineering, forceful way that really did remind me of Voldemort, I should not withdraw from him. I should not reject him so easily. He needs me right now; he has no one else. And neither do I.

"Yes," he says. No, he means.

"Anything I can help with?" I ask, kindly, and he does looks honestly surprised by my gentle tone. As if he was expecting me to be partly hostile. I must have been too hard on him indeed. I sit softly at the edge of his mattress, staring down at his beautiful but troubled face. These breathtaking, icy eyes have no red in them at all; they are Tom's eyes. Could it be that this look in his eyes, this expression that was so unmistakably Voldemort, was simply my own fears manifesting themselves before my eyes?

"No," he says. Yes, he means.

I decide not to push him, and so I stay silent. But I don't get off his bed, though, because I am certain that, in his own time, he will tell me whatever he needs to tell me. For now, his eyes are wandering aimlessly around the room, glassy amd cold, and his unearthly features are unreadable. It feels almost as if he is wearing a mask. Eventually though, his eyes focus on me, and he speaks, the moonlight making his skin glow. I, admittedly, have a hard tearing my eyes off the pale skin extending where his neck and shoulders meet, and I thank his sleeping robes for preventing my eyes from descending.

" I think... I could probably kill, if it served my interests. Even though I am merely fourteen. I wish I could say that I couldn't, but I think I could. What does that mean about me, Potter? Am I not already what you came here to prevent me from becoming?" he asks, and for a Slytherin he is being surprisingly blunt, mentioning murder as if nothing were. But he isn't fooling me. I can see the fear in his eyes; I know him, after all.

"Probably," I end up saying, and suddenly I feel my eyes water a little, almost as if I am about to cry. Only, of course, I am not, for I am grown man, and I cannot allow myself to be so shaken when Riddle needs me to be strong and stable. My answer seems to surprise him, and hurt him even, for his eyes widen a little and his lips part in shock. I lean in and embrace him.

"But I'd like to believe it is reversible," I add, whispering it right into his ear while I try to supress the sensation of his body touching mine. Just in case, I break the embrace and withdraw. He is staring at me, intensely, and once again his eyes are in no way a child's eyes.

"I don't think so. I don't think I could ever truly believe in the moral codes you adhere to, and value human life like you do. I don't believe I could ever stop loathing those who poison our lives with their worthless, pathetic existences. I don't think I coule ever stop experiencing the desire to make them suffer, finding pleasure in their pain. What I could do, is learn to harness all these urges, leaving them forever redundant and ungratified. I think I could learn to... _pretend_, and to make those around me relatively happy. Would that be good enough?" he asks, and his eyes are bottomless pits of pain as he voices his own despair, as he resigns to his nature.

"I am not sure I agree with that. There is a chance that you could truly change. But in case you can't, that... would be good enough, I suppose," I reply, uncertain of my own words and a little disturbed by his seeming conviction that he is to forever remain, to a certain degree, a psychopath. And yet, if he is willing to spend his entire life pretending to be a good, kind man, he really must be desperate to flee his own nature. He must be desperate to find people to care about him. And that should, indeed, be good enough.

"Good enough for you?" He asks, his eyes suddenly screwed into mine, empty and yet full of intensity.

"For me? You should not think too highly of me, you know. I'm barely any less of a screwed-up wreck than you. You're already good enough for me, I'd say." I murmur, and my voice comes out sounding a little more tender than I had aimed for; surprisingly soft, really. I'll be moving in with this young man eventually, I tell myself, so that I may spend more time with him. And it is not only so that I can help him rid himself from his personal demons and find his way. I _want_ him around.

He doesn't smile at my affectionate statement at first, but his face does relax, his lines softening. He still seems to be plagued with various thoughts, sitting up inside his bed silent and unmoving, and I'd give an arm and a leg to know what his thoughts are about. Eventually, his lips curve upwards and he places his hand on top of mine; a gesture that really surprises me, since he has never initiated such intimate contat before. His hand, delicate, with long, smooth fingers, is a little cold, but it feels soothing against my own warm, calloused skin. I flip my hand around and, turning my palm upwards, I catch his hand into mine and hold it. It looks fairly small inside mine, I realise.

_Heck, but he is_ young.

"It's Christmas Eve tomorrow." I suddenly say. Quite an impulsive statement, one that I had no reason to phrase, really. It seems to amuse Riddle quite a bit, and his subtle smile turns into a smirk.

"Albus and Gellert under a mistletoe, K-I-S-..."

Right, fourteen.


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but I do own that hot guy over there, with his loose dark ponytail, sexy sideburns and piercing black eyes. No sorry Rowling, I won't trade.

A/N: Okay… Not much to say about this chapter, other that it was difficult to write. Also I have been re-editing chapters 1-10 a little. No, I did not remove all the typos. Hell, I doubt I even spotted half of them. But I did improve the paragraphing a lot, and the general structure. At least now they are readable. :)

To Aya Macchiato: I absolutely LOVE your stories. When I saw your review I almost squeaked. And keep in mind that most of Riddle's dreams are derived from mine, which means I am not exactly the kind of person that squeaks on a regular basis. Can I have an autograph now?

To WelcomeToTheAsylum: Thank you. And… erm… thank you. As for Riddle's success, well, just don't take it for granted. It will be a rocky road. Hehe.

To Snowflake: Their Christmas will be relatively fluffy. They'll need it, because when they get back they will have to face quite a few challenges. Unpleasant ones.

To deamonkieran: Psychopath or Sociopath… It's an entire debate, isn't it? In an early chapter (5 or 6?) I did post the official clinical psychopath checklist of PCL-R, and I am pretty sure Tom does qualify. But I did mention Potter considering him a sociopath a few chappies back, too, because quite honestly, he acts like one. Perhaps both?

To 1986: Darkly Dreaming Dexter, huh? I am quite flattered to be associated with a book I actually adored. Thanks. Also, you are right about Harry blaming Tom for crimes he hasn't yet committed. It doesn't make sense. It does happen though, because Potter already sees a killer in Tom, and he is unable to act in a fully rational way. He is a very emotional person, even in his canon!Harry version. As for the German pronunciation, I know, since I am half Luxembourgish. I am simply trying to be humorous, not depict the accent in a realistic manner. I am sorry if I insulted my German friends. ;)

* * *

Chapter 33

Potter's PoV

I wake not the light of day, but the sound of Riddle whimpering disturbingly and squirming inside his bed. Concerned and a little alarmed, I immediately get up on my feet and make my way to his bed only to find him trembling, a look of suppressed agony deforming his perfect face. He would never allow himself to appear so vulnerable while awake and in control of his body, I think to myself, and then extend my arm towards his pale cheek.

Upon contact, Riddle's eyes snap open and he instinctively withdraws from my touch. I watch in awe at the instantaneous transformation he undergoes as soon his consciousness takes over his muscles, turning him from an exposed, expressive child into a cool, collected wizard.

"Was it a particularly nasty one?" I ask, trying to sound casual and light, but my voice cannot hide my obvious worrying about him. He stares at me silently for a few seconds, probably shaking off his negative emotions and clearing his mind, and then he speaks.

"It wasn't entirely pleasant, no," he says, his tone calm and quiet, but his breathing still somewhat ragged. His clenches his jaw and for a moment he looks like he's in mild pain, his eyes clouded with something I can't recognise. It doesn't last though; soon enough he is once again statuesque, distant.

"Care to talk about it?" I inquire, trying to be supportive without being irritating. I know just how any direct and emotionally ridden offer of assistance can annoy him, since he is so terribly self-sufficient, and so I utter the words rather nonchalantly. It doesn't work.

"No, not really. I am alright now. Thank you, though," he responds with a delicate albeit completely fraudulent smile on his face, turning down my helping hand. By the surprisingly defensive vibes he appears to be giving off, I deduce it must have been a dream he really does _not _want anyone knowing about. Which, of course, only makes it more imperative that _I _find out what it's all about. I choose a different strategy this time.

"I see. Oh well, that's fine; I was simply trying to acquire a better understanding of your character, really, so that I do not have to judge you based on acts you haven't yet committed. Dreams help in that, I think. I am sure that my sharing my own nightmares with you has offered you more than a few useful insights, no?" I answer warmly but somewhat disinterestedly, and I watch in amusement as he slowly raises his arched eyebrows. He is truly stunningly handsome, I note to myself, and inwardly cringe while I do so. It can't be morally healthy to be tempted by a fourteen year old.

"Did I just detect an amateur attempt at emotional blackmailing? Potter, your argument has any value only if we assume that the contents of my dream will improve your opinion of me," he offers, a little flatly but less coldly than before. His sarcasm does not distract me from the worrisome implications of his reply, though, nor does the nervousness behind his voice escape my notice.

"My initial opinion of you was based on your atrocious crimes as a Dark Lord. However horrible and disturbing the visions your mind concocts, they _must _be an improvement compared to that." I observe, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to encourage and reassure him. He stares at me, his eyes unfathomable and hazy. Crap. Could his nightmare really have been _that_ bad?

"I…" he starts all of sudden, but then seems unable to come up with an adequate sentence, and falls silent once more.

"Tom. Please, trust me with this. You do not have to hide the darkness lurking inside you; not from me. I was never blind to it to start with. The fact you seem so shaken and upset by whatever you saw alone, it proves to me that you are not Voldemort yet." I explain gently, placing my hand on top of his. As soon as our limbs come into contact, I shiver at the unearthly coldness of his skin.

"If you want to know so …badly, I guess I'll have to oblige," he finally whispers, his voice oddly low and hoarse, and almost mean. Instead of sounding like a concession, his statement sounds like a threat, and that does make me feel uncomfortable. I unwillingly find myself withdrawing my hand, as if stung by the venom coursing through the boy's veins.

"I experienced myself returning to a large estate that was, presumably, my home. As I entered the old house, I called out for you, to make my presence known, but received no response. Slightly concerned by the odd darkness reigning within the residence, I made my way upstairs, looking for you. In the middle of a corridor, I discovered your body, maimed and mutilated beyond recognition. It was only through the lingering traces of your magical signature that I recognized you, Harry…"

He stops there for a second, regaining his composure, erasing the shaking from his voice. I wait, and I almost drown myself in the dark, apocryphal void of his crystalline eyes. I am almost afraid of him, the twisted evil residing inside his young, delicate frame, and yet I need to understand him, to help him.

_Harry.._

The way he utters my name so sadly, so regretfully causes an unnamed fear to coil around my heart.

"There is a trail of blood near you, one that I then followed, desperate to know who did this to you, and why. I think I was feeling angry, and perhaps saddened, but that probably doesn't matter. I chased the red traces all the way to the master bedroom, and upon entering I discovered your murderer. He was staring out of the window and into the darkened skies, his back turned to me. I shout out towards him, threats and questions and other meaningless sounds that I fail to recall. And then he turned around…" Tom's voice breaks there, although his eyes are completely dry and his face is blank and perfectly still.

Suddenly, I know what he is going to say, and I put it into words before he finds the courage to.

"And he was you, wasn't he, Tom?" I ask, softly, as if afraid I might break something in him by daring to let the words flow out of my mouth. He flinches visibly at the sound of his name, and he averts his gaze, his lips growing thin. For a split second, his features are overwhelmed by pain and sadness. The next, he turns around to me, his eyes bright with the first signs of insanity.

"Yes. Yes he was me. And then do you what happened, _Harry_? Then I was suddenly witnessing the dream through his eyes, and I was turning around only to find a pathetic, snivelling teenager shouting at me. A nuisance. I easily disposed of him though, with a simply flick of the wand, a silent _Avada Kedavra_. He and his pitiful emotions, his petty attachments were no longer needed" he finishes, his voice trailing into a rough, eerie silence, and his eyes burning with a thousand different feelings. He looks profoundly, irreparably damaged, and endlessly scared.

"What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with me, Potter! I'm trying! I really am. And it clearly isn't... I just don't seem to..." he exclaims then, his tone betraying a sudden outbursts of panic, and he throws himself into my arms.

_Dear gods, just how destroyed is he? _I think as I wrap my arms around him, deeply disturbed by his heinous, malevolent visions, but relieved to find at least a part of him equally appalled by them. If he is still able to hate himself for being this, there must certainly be hope for him.

"And here I thought you were starting to like me," I mutter humourlessly, and a dry, forced chuckle escapes my lips as his body shakes against mine. He lifts his head at my stupid reply, and I find his eyes finally shimmering with tears, which strangely enough floods me with relief. He is human, it helps me realise, he hurts just like the rest of us.

"But I do. I actually do. I just… I…" he attempts incoherently, and I try to sooth him by running my hand through his sleek, slightly wavy hair.

"It can't just be nurture, as I am sure you must have realised. One incident, ten incidents even, they can't give birth to something like that. It's me. There's something wrong with _me_," he announces gravely, with a finality that catches me unprepared, and he hits my torso with his small fists, desperately.

Only I am not willing to believe that, and I am not willing to let him believe that, either.

_So what if you have an attachment disorder, or a dissocial personality one? If you fall under the diagnostic criteria for this or that psychopathological condition? We are all potentially insane. We are all in some way unnatural. You can live with it, I promise._

_I did not experience what you do, not exactly. Not even close, actually._

_But in a sense, I know how it feels. I wasn't exactly the definition of normalcy myself._

"I beg to differ; I don't think there's anything intrinsically wrong with you at all. But only time can tell," I whisper. _It'll be a rocky road, but I think we'll manage__, _I add to myself, a sudden wave of tenderness and pity for the boy taking over my mind. I _accio_ a chair to myself and sit myself next to Riddle's bed, removing myself from his mattress.

"Go to sleep. I'll be right here," I mumble, comfortingly, and I watch his face tense a little, as if he is about to say something about how he's fine and doesn't need me, but he holds his tongue instead. And so nothing else is said between us, and eventually he closes his eyes again, his breath becoming even. Soon enough, although I am still seated on the chair, I feel myself drifting to sleep as well.

I close my eyes.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

I wake to the white rays of the winter sun flickering before my eyes, but when I slowly turn my head towards the general direction of the green man's bed, a sight infinitely more wondrous awaits me. Harry Potter is still sitting on the same chair he'd called to himself last night, asleep, and his body is slightly curled to the side, the morning light caressing his serene face. _I'll be right here, _he'd promised, and he indeed honoured his word, so even though I had been about to ask him to remove himself from my personal space last night, I now feel a sudden surge of affection worms its way into my chest.

How can it be that part of me, a little part of me that lingers inside the deepest shadows of my mazy mind, wants this man gone from my life, _dead_, when the rest of me has come to feel for him emotions I have never felt before? It makes ashamed of myself, and afraid of myself; afraid of the possibility that this part might one day take control of my actions and strip away from me the very few emotions I've ever managed to experience.

Noiselessly, I fold the sheets away from my slender body and I carefully get up, taking a slow step towards Potter, on the very tip of my toes. I stand there, a mere couple of feet away from his sleeping visage, for the longest time, watching him and absorbing every little detail of his physique: the sensual curves of his upper lip, his slightly thick but incredibly expressive eyebrows, his long, dark lashes and the faint pink tinge on his strong, lined cheeks. His appearance is truly a breathtaking contradiction; he is so masculine, so angular, so lined and trained and hard, and yet he also exudes kindness, softness, eroticism even. I extend one of my arms, succumbing to the urge to trace the arousing outline of his jaw.

His eyes flick open and he instinctively jumps upwards and grabs my hand, twisting it around as he locks my body into a helpless position, causing me to wince in pain.

Only then does he realise where he is and with whom, recognition causing his brilliant eyes to widen, and he immediately releases me, taking a few shaky steps behind and staring at me with a deeply apologetic look.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to… You surprised me; I…" he babbles his excuses as I stretch my aching wrist; I offer him a smile of sympathy though, for I wouldn't want him to feel any guilt about reflexes he has acquired through war and bloodshed. I understand where he comes from, despite the fact that I sometimes curiously forget just how much experience he has had on the battle field, and even admire him for it sometimes; the fact that this kind, caring wizard also happens to be a glorious killing machine simply fascinates me.

However, an entirely different explanation for his violent reaction occurs to me, one which I find considerably displeasing: could it be that, in light of the contents of the dream which I so stupidly decided to disclose, he has once more become guarded against me? Could it be that this… Auror reflex is simply the physical manifestation of the fact has once more, perhaps subconsciously, catalogued me as a possible threat against his wellbeing?

I would not be happy if this is the case, but neither would I be able to blame him for his loss of trust; I do admit that my nightmare was particularly disturbing and menacing, and it has even caused _me_ to feel increasingly wary of myself.

_Well, he would be a fool not to be wary of me. _

_Let us not kid ourselves; I am cruel, and violent, and oft sadistic, and probably naught can change these facts._

"Interesting Auror reflexes there, sir," I mutter absent-mindedly, my grey matter still terribly busy in processing the possible ways Potter could have interpreted the murderous intent exhibited inside my dream. He offers me a somewhat endearing, sheepish smile, and mumbles a few more clumsy apologies, scratching the back of his head awkwardly and perhaps even blushing a little, unless I am simply imagining that part, which I might be.

"About last night… Thank you for staying by my side until morn, although I am not entirely sure what purpose your presence could have possible served. And I am truly sorry for the horrors my mind seems to craft; I truly wish I was a different person at times, you may trust my word on that," I add, feeling the need to mention last night's incident, and to underline my distance from the intentions displayed within my own, twisted nightmare.

"It's alright," He says, and he generously beams a smile at me, soft but brilliant, before turning to the door and heading out towards Jumblesaur's kitchen, occasionally flicking his gaze behind to make sure I am following.

* * *

Generally I find time to be an exceedingly tiresome and irritating dimension, since it always seems to progress in such an excruciatingly slow, dull manner, especially during the auditory vomit that are Binn's lessons. Here though, at the Transfigurations' Master's cottage, time appears to regain an adequate speed, since life tends to be infinitely more interesting than it usually is.

Before long, nighttime has arrived, veiling the world with its soothing darkness and painting the sky with stars. The auburn haired wizard, along with his constantly amused companion, seem to be preparing some kind of grandiose dining feast, while Potter is transfiguring ridiculously, criminally kitsch Christmas decoration here and there, obviously enjoying himself with the production of such visually polluting nonsense.

"Ze dinner is ready! Let us all enjoy ze Christmas spirit und stuff ourselves vith fattening food, ya?" Grindelwald shouts out from the kitchen, and he then walks into the living room with a more than few plates of food hovering around him, most of which are actually bearing the weight of such surreal mountains of edible material that I honestly do wonder if he'd been able to lift them, had he been a wizard of any less exceptional power.

Meanwhile, Potter is still actualising twinkling stars and candy canes, whilst also attaching to them the occasional singing charm or dancing charm, producing an overall very disconcerting environment. Although I am certain that he must find this entire decoration business as aesthetically emetic as I do, he seems to be having so much fun that I find myself actually smiling a little, my eyes following his flowing movements.

"Why do we actually celebrate Christmas, by the way? I was under the impression that due to the magical folks' isolationist tendency, our society was mostly unaffected by the rather ridiculous religious feasts that muggles have been coming up with." I point out rather flatly during our flashy and overly complicated dinner, causing Potter to grin behind his chicken wing, and Gellert to nod in passionate agreement.

"Good question, young man. I am not partial on Christian traditions, if that is your question. I just find the entire concept of Christmas to be very entertaining. If you want, we could celebrate the Saturnalia instead, next time, and have a nice debaucherous feast full of dancing and wine. Or perhaps we could pick Yule as our celebration of choice, or maybe rejoice at the rebirth of Mithras, the Sun God, the Sol Invictus… Or maybe…" Albus-Bulbous begins babbling joyfully, and it just dawns on me that, through my innocent question, I have made the fatal mistake of offering the man a few new ideas for his already giant supply of silly, meaningless and tacky possibilities.

A certain retired Dark Lord seems to be staring at me with a rather hostile glint in his eyes, and I suspect he might be thinking of entertaining ways to slaughter me, while Potter, that smarmy bastard, is still chuckling, this timehiding his traitorous lips behind a steak.

Potter wisely decides to change the subject, before this situation gets out of hand and we all end up throwing hexes and jinxes at one another, and I applaude his mature and knowing behaviour.

"Should we open the presents yet? I mean, I know we aren't supposed to open them until tomorrow morning, but since we are all adults here, except from Tom Riddle, who is nonetheless, indisputably, very mature for his age, we could cheat. There is nothing restraining us or forcing us to follow muggle traditions to the letter, is there?" he suddenly inquires, and he offers a very sweet smile at Wobbledore, knowing full well that, despite the meddlesome coot's apparent eccentricity, he is the one in charge here, and hence it is he who must be charmed into agreeing.

"It is not actually true that we are supposed to unwrap our gifts tomorrow. In Austria, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Hungary, Iceland, Latvia, Norway, Poland, Portugal and Sweden presents are opened mostly on the evening of the 24th, and it is also the tradition that our royal family follows, since they are of German ancestry. So, what I am arguing here is that in order to respect cultural diversity and not offend our German guest…" I point out helpfully, defending Potter's excellent suggestion with a few more solid arguments.

Grindelwald and Tumble-bore stare at each other for a while, lips twitching.

"It feels a bit as if ve have adopted kids, ya?" the retired tyrant observes casually, taking a healthy bite off something that, according to my best theories should be a piece of deer meat sautéed in strawberry syrup.

"Well, it's not a _bad_ idea… Not the kids. The presents, I mean," the blond wizard's lover counters, scratching his messy auburn beard pensively.

And so, for a few moments, I can really put aside my poisonous dreams, my fears, my destructive urges.

I am simply having too much... _fun_.


	34. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: "Disclaimer!"

A/N: College, moving out and procrastination and getting the best of me. Please, keep feeding me with encouraging reviews, so that I can find the motivation to squirt out long, interesting chapters. Also, this story is NOT being abandoned. Ever

To Aya Macchiato: Well, you _are_ well known in the TM/HP fandom. Since it's relatively small, it's hard not to be well known when you've written a quality, novel-length fic.

To Day: Yours was not a review; it was actually a serious piece of literary criticism, and I am truly grateful for that. I realise that Tom's purple prose and his literary exaggerations are very hard to deal with at first, so I might consider a re-write of the first chapters. Yet, Riddle is Riddle, so his mind will still be portrayed as something unnecessarily complex and full of psychotic misinterpretations.

To Reshmi Solaris and Barranca: I am not sure what the necessary age is in order for this relationship to be, as you put it, feasible. Prodigies tend to mature in very odd and imbalanced ways, sometimes becoming sexually or intellectually mature far before their emotional world takes shape. I was already involved in a long-term sexual relationship with an adult when I was 15, for example. And years later I can still safely say I had not been manipulated or seduced. The other way round, if anything.

To WelcomeToTheAsylum: These English rules about which words get capitalised or not make no sense to me, so forgive my possible grammatical monstrosities. About Albus' age, well, Rowling has conflicted herself here, since she did at some point reveal him to be born in 1881, which means he should be 60 in my story, but back in 2001 she had stated him to be "around 150", which would make him around 90 here. The fact that wizards live longer than muggles is stated in the HP lexicon, by the way, and proven throughout the actual series.

As for Gellert… Gellert is quite a mystery for now, for he rarely reveals his thoughts or feelings, and we don't get to experience his narrator's voice in this story. We did see him try to help Tom after the dog incident, but that's pretty much the only significant thing he's done yet. Don't worry though, he will have a significant role in this story, and soon enough his motivations and personality will inevitably begin to unravel.

* * *

Chapter 34

Riddle's PoV

Shamble-pore is smiling at his oddly amused companion now, and his generally pale skin seems to have acquired a slightly pink tinge to it, causing Potter to discreetly move his gaze onto the relatively uninteresting wall, coughing quietly behind his hand. Although the Transfigurations' Master did seem to appreciate the rational value of my well-constructed argument, for some strange reason he no longer looks interested in unwrapping gifts, having suddenly become overly drawn into some kind of tender staring contest.

Despite the fact that I can comprehend the appeal of our resident retired Dark Lord, who is, admittedly, admirably powerful and not too hard on the eye, age considered, I have a very low tolerance for such sappy moments of unspoken affection. Furthermore, I am actually quite impatient about the whole unwrapping activity; I will, after all, be receiving gifts from three exceptionally interesting and magically talented individuals, and they are _bound_ to be as impressive as their givers.

"Well… That still doesn't solve the present issue. Forgive the pun," I point out in a sweetly helpful voice, interrupting Albus-Elbows' and Grindelwald's moment of nostalgic recollection and romantic glaring in the most tactful way possible and reminding them of the pressing matter that has been put on the table.

"Alright, let's open zem, if you all insist. I vill summon ze ones I've bought over here, ya? Impatient children…" the German wizard eventually mutters, looking simultaneously irritated and entertained by my interruption, an elegant blond eyebrow curved upwards expressing, along with a small smirk, an impossibly bizarre mixture of contempt and affection. A long, carved wand appears between his bony fingers, and after a quick albeit careful examination of its colour and texture, I estimate it to be Birch, around 14 inches; a flowing and nonchalant swish later, three small packages appear behind the foreign wizard.

"Great idea. I'll put mine over there, then," Harry Potter adds cheerfully and perhaps a little hurriedly, before he proceeds to taking out his own wand, which he flicks a little while casting his non-verbal, as usual, summoning spell. I observe, with quite a bit of curiosity, that although he generally uses wandless magic when casting before me, he tends to, unnecessarily, use his wand when in front of others, even in the presence of wizards he is supposed to trust. For a few seconds the thought of this seemingly unimportant detail makes me feel that I hold a rather special position in the green man's life, which makes me proud, flatters me, but also causes me to experience a certain degree of nervousness.

"Since this odd summoning ritual appears to be unfolding in a clockwise manner, I guess it is my turn to proceed," I note casually, and I gracefully slide my wand from its holster into my hand, waving it around with a small albeit precise movement while I quietly whisper out the appropriate incantation. To be fully honest, summoning multiple objects simultaneously in a uniform manner is not a terribly easy activity, despite the fact that all other wizards present seem to be able to do so without even breaking a sweat, but since I am particularly focused on being up to par with them, I concentrate my magical energy carefully and eventually manage.

Gobble-door seems to be somewhat impressed with my achievement, and even Grindelwald offers me a knowing smirk of approval; Harry Potter, on the other hand, already knows exactly just how powerful I can and probably will become, and is not the slightest, most minute bit surprised by my magical abilities, eating on obliviously.

Suddenly I notice that Dumb-door's washed-out blue eyes are lingering on my wand more than they probably should, and I find myself wondering exactly what is going through the silly, dreadfully complex but shockingly potent and well-read Transfiguration Master's mind.

"Identical cores... I guess I knew that already, since they are Fawkes' feathers, both of them. But I still didn't expect your magical cores themselves to feel so distinctly... well, similar. It's most peculiar," the wise coot mumbles to himself, scratching his greying beard as his gentle face morphs into a visage of pensive wonderment, lips pursed and brows brought together thoughtfully. I am almost amazed by his very accurate and frighteningly significant observation, and I note to myself that in spite of his gentle and unthreatening exterior, he is truly an individual to behold, both as a human and a wizard.

"Well, it seems it's my turn then," he eventually concludes, beaming a blindingly, disturbing bright grin towards his guests, the thoughtfulness previously carved onto his face now completely erased; I suppose he thought it best not to press onto that matter for the moment, as to not spoil our supposed celebration.

* * *

"I think I should also be the one to unwrap first, since I am the eldest here," he then adds gleefully, his eyes twinkling with such piercing intensity, that although I am certain he does not mean to actually look frightening, he does hold a stare that should appear only in the most twisted kind of nightmares. Of course, his maddening glare of piercing twinkliness does have the desired effect, since we all seem to cower away in fear as soon as he turns his gaze at us, and the eerie silence reigning seems to suggest that we have all decided to wisely to comply to the auburn-haired wizard's desires.

"Zis one is from me, ya? Merry K… Vell… Vhatever. Have fun," the former Dark Lord mutters all of a sudden in a disgusted and hurried manner, levitating forth a small and rather humble box while I inwardly smirk at the blond wizard's inability to even pronounce Christmas wishes, fully empathising with how emetic he seems to find all these verbal mannerisms and sickly sweet traditions.

Grumble-gore grabs the present greedily, a soft blush spreading onto his face, and he leans in to kiss his lover chastely on the cheek; a gesture to which said lover reacts rather bizarrely, a look of dread and shame contorting his features, but no evasive manoeuvre attempted. Underneath all his apparent scorn for such unbecoming expressions of affection, I am beginning to suspect that the retired dictator might actually be secretly enjoying the Light Lord's overwhelming tenderness; it is a strangely unsettling realisation for me, which somehow mercilessly shatters my childhood ideals of dictatorial grandeur, leaving me cringing.

"Dearie me! Ulfric the Quaint's wandholster! And Oddina's Ring of Airwalking… Oh… And is that…? Merlin's beard! Rowena's notes on her infamous partial Transfiguration experiments! How did you… These are invaluable! Have been lost for centuries!" Gamble-chore exclaims, his brow arching upwards to a surreal degree and his lips parting in unrestrained awe before his face breaks into a large, giddy smile, his eyes shining with a light more lively than ever before. His mysterious companion simply smirks at him, softly and quizzically, his dark blue eyes are unreadable to me but certainly hiding quite a few enticing tales of academic research and wizarding adventure.

As for me, I am apparently allowing my jaw to drop a little, as shameful and unappealing as this might sound, for I have often encountered these priceless artefacts in my various magical readings and I am therefore able to comprehend the legendary, epic proportions of Grindelwald's gift. Harry Potter, on the other hand, seems to be mildly confused at the general atmosphere of utter fascination; and yet he seems to fully understand that for some strange reason these visually unimpressive old trinkets are invaluable to people like Crumble-core, and tries his best to look thoroughly impressed. It's rather endearing, really.

At some point though, the green man decides to break through this general air of frozen stupefaction, and he humbly brings forth his own gift, wrapped a little clumsily with a really horrendous, orange paper, adorned with an equally nauseating yellow ribbon. The Hogwarts' professor must be exceedingly fond of my signature-sibling though, because he chooses to politely ignore the aesthetical crimes against wizardkind committed around the gift, and accepts it happily, offering a hugely tender look in return.

The heinous wrapping contains an equally horrible present; a pair of colourful, woollen socks, and I almost choke myself in shock at the utter ridiculousness of Harry Potter's gift, briefly wondering what in Morgana's Venom he has been thinking.

And yet, somehow, the middle-aged redhead seems to be profoundly touched by the ghastly items of clothing, and although he remains silent, his large eyes are humid with the first signs of upcoming tears, and pinned on the time-traveler's own eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Suddenly, I feel left out, unable to decode the wordless emotions shared between them, the unsaid things exchanged, and somehow this makes me truly jealous, if not actually angry; a reaction that the foreign wizard does not appear to share, watching over the scene in with a subtle, puzzling spark in his eyes.

Why is it that the auburn-haired professor became so emotionally moved at the sight of a measly pair of unsightly socks, when his own lover offered him such a rare, dainty, recherché set of objects? It is an abstruse, paradoxical phenomenon who's causes I fail to decipher, and yet I somehow do understand why Harry Potter manages to worm his way into people's hearts so easily; that's simply who he is.

"I am afraid I do not have such a deep knowledge of your personal likes and dislikes, but I did try my very best…" I offer reluctantly as I push forward my own present, purposefully interrupting my stream of pitiably affectionate thoughts on the green man's uncanny ability to win people over, and I furrow my brow a little, irritated with the activity occurring within my own brilliant brain.

"A most excellent choice, my dear boy. I really do wonder how you managed to procure yourself such an extraordinary object!" the oldest wizard states warmly, cocking his eyebrows in a friendly and approving way, his lips curving up into a radiating smile; a smile which somehow makes me feel good about myself, I realise hesitantly. I did, after all, have to make use of all my social skill and charm in order to woo Borkin Sr. into not only showing me, but also selling me this magnificent, ancient sphinx quill; a device that allows its user to write impressive riddles, produced by his own subconscious, as replies to questions he has previously addressed towards the quill.

His clear, light blue eyes seem to see right through me for a few seconds, wise, timeless, metaphysical, and I nearly shiver at their warm but piercing intensity.

"Gellert, dear, it's your turn to be the recepient, I think," he then points out cheerfully, producing a terribly toothy grin and turning his face towards his lover, features softening into a sea of incomprehensible fondness as he levitates a dusty, wooden container towards the German wizard.

"Even zough I probably von't like it, I vill still like you," the blond man teasingly reassures, a twinkle of mischief flickering behind his serene and elegant appearance as he pushes back a strand of long, curly hair; he then swiftly opens the old container, revealing a small, wooden, undistinguished nightstand, around which I sense no magical activity whatsoever. Another odd, bewildering gift, that I simply cannot make any sense out of using any kind of rational thought process, especially when I compare its commonplace nature with Grindelwald's matchless, regal offerings.

The former tyrant himself, though, does not seem to be facing any confusion at all; his graceful features are still, only his nostrils quivering a little, while his deep, unfathomable eyes emit the strangest mixture of gratitude and nostalgia. Another private meaning, it occurs to me, just like those horrible socks; another intimate, impenetrable bond materialised in the form of this uninteresting piece of furniture, forever distant and inscrutable to me.

It is most peculiar, but suddenly it appears to me as if Grindelwald's gift is the ordinary, mediocre, unmemorable one, while his lover's holds an entirely different kind of value, immeasurable and miraculous, that I simply fail to grasp yet.

"There, this one's from me," Harry Potter offers next, his face betraying that he's been considerably touched by the silent exchange between the two lovers, and he playfully throws a small, heavy packet towards the goatee-ornate man, who catches it mid-air with a graceful, triumphant move. "It's nothing much…" he mutters additionally, and I stare at him incredulously, wondering how he manages to occasionally act like some sort of shy, humble child, in spite of his marvellous physique and amazing magical abilities.

"Ve-ri-ta-se-rum? Vhat is zat? Most interesting," the former Dark Lord observes, examining the medium-sized vial with his shadowy, scrutinising glare, and I discover myself leaning into the dinner table in order to get closer to the odd unction, curiosity piqued.

"It hasn't been discovered yet, but I know how to brew it so… Three drops are all it takes to compel someone to speak nothing but the truth and reply honestly to all questions for next hour or so. Quite impressive, no?" the green man explains, smiling sheepishly, an expression that shouldn't normally suit his strong, masculine jawline and handsome, rugged looks, but that does so nonetheless.

"Wait a second. How did you manage to _brew_ such a complex potion while shopping in the Diagon Alley?" I suddenly inquire, my cool eyes narrowing suspiciously towards the time-traveller, who simply offers me a large, friendly smile.

"I forced Borkin to sell me his time-turner and then…" the green man begins, waving his hand around excitedly, like a naughty child confessing his latest mischief, all while our auburn-haired host keeps giggling and the recipient of the gift in question cocks an eyebrow in generous appreciation.

"Alright. I see, I see," I interrupt the Gryffindor, torn between feeling mildly irritated at the way he, despite his relatively simple mind, manages to most often outsmart me, and experiencing an unhealthy surge of admiration for my guardian to be and object of erroneous desire. Since my grey matter seems to be, for the second time tonight, walking down rather dangerous and dodgy lanes, I decide to present my own gift to Grindelwald, as to distract my head from its irritating habits and lamentable lack of restraint.

"Here." I tell the foreign wizard casually, handing a single scroll of parchment towards him in earnest seriousness, which he grabs with a small, slightly arrogant smirk decorating his mature, elegant features. His eyes start racing through my old-fashioned handwriting, and soon enough they widen considerably, causing his golden eyebrows to rise into his hairline; all while I try not to appear too smug at having managed to so successfully impress a former Dark Lord.

"Zis is… Salazar's analysis of ze Avada Kedavra, ya? I… However did you…!" he mumbles a little incoherently, biting his lower lip in growing excitement while his goofy companion also leans in to take a peak at the priceless piece of paper. Very little is still known about the origins and structure if the killing curse, and the only valuable work to have ever been produced on that subject was not only written in the language of snakes, but also lost in the traitorous folds of time; until the green man showed me the Chamber of Secrets, that is.

"Translated from Parselscribe," I explain most succinctly, and I suddenly notice Harry Potter's brilliant eyes absent-mindedly tracing the lines of my body, something which gives birth to an unnamed sense of warmth inside my stomach; only a moment later he averts his gaze, probably feeling guilty for having been discovered.

"Amazing. Extraordinairy. But, ve vere in zhat Alley und you could not possibly have…" he utters pensively, his ocean-coloured gaze still scanning the parchment in obvious agitation, alight with a strong and slightly frightening fire.

"Eidetic memory," I supply simply, and I once more put a considerable amount of effort in not sounding overly cocky, for I would not want too appear too self-confident before wizards that are easily superior to me for time being; it would be unwise. With the very corner of my eye, I register the Transfigurations' Master's expression, which tends towards what one would call a scowl; as I see it, he must not approve too much of his lover's growing fascination with Slytherin's experiments on a spell meant to materialise murderous intent.

"I've always wondered how this curse manages to simply kill its target without causing any other kind of damage at all, to be honest. Never could bother reading through all of Salazar's tomes, though… Would you care to point me towards the most interesting passages, Tom?" the young teaching assistant inquires interestedly, but I immediately recognise what he truly trying to achieve; he is defending me against Albus-Walrus' mistrust by acting out his beliefs on magic: there is no _good_ or _bad_ magic, there's only moral and immoral wizards, and therefore there is nothing criminal in being interested in every kind and every branch of magical lore.

I place my eyes fondly on the green man's handsome face, a surge of contentment filling my chest at the realisation that he is truly a unique, exceptional individual, as he is not only powerful and distinguished, but also tolerant and understanding; and he is here for me, specifically.

"Sure, I'll pick out the best parts for you. I understand you are not exactly fond of reading through huge, tiresome tomes, so I wouldn't want you to be forced to do so. Slytherin did invent some exceptional protective spells, too, by the way; you will find them to be of great interest," I reply gently, trying to break the rigidity of my visage and allow for a warm smile, and I observe as Fumble-store's frown dissolves at the sound of my last sentence, as he comes to understand and accept the point Potter and I are trying to make.

* * *

"Well then, Harry, dearest, it is your turn now, isn't it?" the auburn-haired professor notes happily, and he swallows a handful of lemon drops, his eerie cheerfulness fully restored; he then whirls his hand around and a large gift lands on the horribly decorated and impossibly kitsch dinner table, just in front of the green man's smiling face.

"A pensieve…" Harry Potter murmurs as he unwraps the old, rusty object, his shiny green eyes drilling into the modest gift with unreasonable intensity, as if he was taking in a splendid, breathtaking sight; I do wonder why he seems so moved by this relatively plain present. Eventually though, unlike with the case of the socks or the nightstand, I come to realise why it is that Gamble-door's choice is actually both wise and considerate; he is offering Harry Potter the chance to store his memories, untouched and unaltered by the passage of time, and that must indeed be important to him. Many of these memories are, after all, of people and places he loved and will never be given the opportunity to meet again; a pensieve thus allows him to retain his roots, his identity.

"Thank you, Albus." the green man whispers a little hoarsely, his features shaped into a bittersweet expression, and I can already feel him floating away from us, from this timeline, his mind lost in recollection and reminiscence.

"Zis one is from me, ya?" Grindelwald exclaims a little dully, pushing forward a rather small pouch in a slow, nonchalant manner; and yet, despite his apparent irritation towards this whole process, I can discern that the former dictator is actually enjoying himself, for his eyes shine brightly and mischievously behind his façade of graceful apathy and snark. The time-traveller digs a large hand into the pouch and fiddles around for a while, finally pulling out a large, bright stone in the colour of fire, radiating and glistering inside his calloused palm and emanating a sense of energy and warmth.

"Holy Molly. It's an Ignis stone, isn't? I didn't think any of them had made it into our century… Only ever seen an Aquis one myself," the young man observes in a tone of mildly disbelieving awe, twisting the impressive jewel around, allowing it to deflect the light through various different angles, creating thus a plethora of interesting crimson patterns on the pale walls of the cottage. The retired Dark Lord cocks an eyebrow in sparked curiosity, and it appears me to that he had not expected Potter to so easily recognise the nature of his gift, let alone have seen something similar before; in fact he looks somewhat perplexed, but not in an unpleasant manner.

As for me, as much as I intensely dislike having to inwardly admit something as shameful, I have absolutely no idea what this particular stone is, and why the fact that the green man knows about it seems to be so intriguing in the eyes of Gellert Grindelwald.

"Vell, at least I von't have to explain to you vhat it does, ya?" the German wizard concludes cheerfully and then proceeds to swallowing a few sips of red wine, his slightly arrogant grin betraying his rising approval of the young time-traveller

"I'd actually be interested in acquiring information on this peculiar jewel, in case any of you can bother formulating an explanation. I find it bewildering that I have not come across anything similar in my numerous readings…" I suddenly utter, in a slightly flat and hurried matter, unwilling to draw attention upon the fact that I am actually asking for a favour, since I find such behaviour very unbecoming, but equally unwilling to allow a for gaps in my treasury of knowledge. Grindelwald offers me a knowing smile, perhaps sympathising with my compulsive urge to know everything, and Potter, his eyes laying on me in a way so fond that it almost makes me shiver, throws the rock at me casually.

"Stop speaking like that, Tom. Pompous little git. You're not trying to impress Slughorn here," Potter suggests teasingly, he tone warm and playful, and then he turns around to me, offering me an almost-wink which makes me feel absurdly agitated.

"Anyway, these stones are magical amplifiers. Or focusers, if you will; a bit like wands. Only they are specific to a certain kind of magic, according to their elemental affinity. This one, I presume, must be good for spells related to the creation and manipulation of fire. You use them much like you'd use a wand: grab them cast through them. I'd show you, since I am also curious to try it out, but I'm afraid I'd cause considerable damage in here. However did you find this one, Grindelwald? In my time, only one of them was thought to have survived, at it was the least powerful one, Aquis," the young teahing assistant explains, his tone factual but also kind, and then turns to the middle-aged albeit eerily charming dark wizard, eyeing his with a slightly incredulous glare and a skewed smile full of curiosity.

I take in his overly simplified and yet refreshingly enlightening explanation, processing the interesting pieces of information offered, and suddenly my reeling mind comes up with a thousand new questions on the subject of these stones, all eagerly urging me to be asked.

"Oh, zis… I found it in Peru, a few years back. Ze truth is, I vas planning to destroy zis stone, really. I am a very poverful vizard as you know, ya? But ze domain of elemental magic is really not my strong point, und zus ze existence of such amazing elemental veapons is not beneficial to me, since zey are useless in my hands, but lethal is ze hands of my enemies, ya? But seeing as I am retiring now, I thought it vould be nice to spare zis splendid artifact and pass it on to ze next generation," Grindelwald offers nonchalantly, shaking the question off in a somewhat apathetic way and shrugging as it if were a matter of no importance; which leads me to believe that he might be feeding us with an outrageous lie as far as the origins of this jewel go, but I decide not to daringly intervene for now.

* * *

Instead, after a few seconds of intense and rather exhausting thought, I conclude that it might be the right time for me to present my own present towards my fascinating guardian-to-be, and quaintly enough, I discover my cardiovascular activities increasing in intensity as I stressfully consider the possibility of him finding my offerings plain and unremarkable.

Of course, I loathe myself for experiening such a pathetic, disquieting set of emotions towards him, and I scorn myself violently for it; but the damage is done, nonetheless.

_I want him to like me._

With a low hiss and a small flick of the wand, the gift rises up into the air and places itself before Potter, whose features I desperately analyze, preparing myself to try and read his possible emotional reactions as he begins to rip apart the wrapping paper.

His straight, sharp brows drift upwards and his lips part a little as he flips the cover of the small, weathered notebook, whose pages are already falling apart; then he simply stares, his exquisite eyes flickering with raw emotion, and long, tense moment passes before any of us say anything. I know exactly what his eyes are pinned onto with such intensity, for I know this diary better than the lines of my very palm; he is staring at a bunch of uneven, curvy letters, and they spell out "_Tom Riddle, 6 years old_". Even as I watch the tattered notebook in his hands, I feel my chest aching at the pain of parting with this object; the charm which causes its yellowed pages never to run out is perhaps one of the first and certainly the most intricate piece of accidental magic I've ever produced, and never did I stop writing in it, up to the last few days.

When Potter first explained to me the disquieting means my future self had used to attain a twisted form of immortality, I immediately knew exactly which diary he'd been talking about; and I found it both sad and understandable that Voldemort would have kept this memento, the silent witness to his humble starts and secret weaknesses, corrupting it into an artifact of evil by storing a fragment of his soul in it.

What Voldemort hadn't understood; what I _did_ realise a few days ago, as I casually read through the diary entries of my younger self and found myself cringing, smiling, ashamed, proud or exasperated, is that this small, worn-out notebook already does contain a part of my soul.

And a part of my soul is probably quite an adequate gift for someone who is trying to save it.

I observe him now, as his brilliant eyes scan through the first pages of the diary, jaw clenching due to what I presume is an effort to contain his emotional reaction, and I know by heart the exact phrasing of the lines he is reading through.

_**Friday 20**__**th**__** of may, 1932**_

_**Helena gave this diary to me, but I am certain that she wasn't trying to be kind. I think she is just afraid of me, and how I constantly ask her for more books to read, and that she is trying to keep me busy like that…**_

…

The time-traveler slams the notebook shut and his piercing, liquid gaze falls into my eyes, causing me to nearly gasp by the overwhelming power of all the unnamed feelings it holds; even the small, incredibly melancholic smile his lips eventually form into cannot distract me from the sheer fervor of his eyes' depth.

"Thank you, Tom," he states, his voice raw, hoarse, serious and full of feeling, and I find it so very _Potter_ of him to use the most simple, most straightforward words, and yet make them vessels to such powerful meanings that they acquire a power of their own, echoing inside my mind. Our gazes eventually break apart, and the older wizards correctly interpret it as a sign to move on with the entire unwrapping ritual, with Jumbo-dore pushing a heavy package towards my general direction, his face gentle and merry.

"There you go, my boy. I now know they'll be in good hands." he whispers, his eyes calm rather than twinkling, and suddenly he appears older then he usually does, wiser, as if he's lived a thousand lives and seen our world be born and die, only to be born again.

_**The Light Magicks of War**_ I manage to translate with considerable difficulty from the Old English carved onto the weathered cover of the ancient, leather-bound grimoire, and I feel a greatly surprised that he'd offer me a guide to the most lethal, potent kind of light sorcery; but it is not until I flip the cover that I truly realise the real value of the Transfigurations' Master's gift.

**Myrddin Emrys****, **it reads.

And yet, instead of feeling flooded with pleasure and overjoyed, an odd wave of terror washes over me; for why would he ever entrust this into my hands, when I am certain that he knows just how thin is the line on which I walk is, and just how much darkness I still carry within my soul.

Unable to utter a single word due to the spreading numbness on my tongue, I simply put the grimoire aside in a manner gentle and careful and filled with reverence, and I place my eyes onto the second book, trying to decipher the half-erased letters etched onto the oxen skin. _**The Dark Magicks of Medicine **_I inwardly translate, and this time I need not search for the name of the author within the worn-out pages, for I know just which Dark witch was famed for her defensive and healing abilities, despite having been written down in history as a villain; after all, this tome is evidently a counter-oeuvre to Merlin's own grimoire, and not much intellect is needed to deduce who could have possibly put together such a project.

"Why are you giving me these, sir? They could be a... temptation to me," I ask the auburn-haired Light Lord, and the sound of my own voice feels alien as it reaches my cochleas, void, hesitant, almost frightened, but also slightly greedy, maybe even a little arrogant.

"That I know, my dear. Did you think that I am invulnerable to temptation myself? Power is always a seductive mistress, Tom, and even the best men cannot overlook that. But I believe in meritocracy, you know, and I do feel you should be the one to inherit these tomes," he replies, and his words come as quite a shock to me, for I would have never imagined Wrangle-more, righteous and morally upright as he is, to have ever been tempted by power; even though I do remind myself that he and Grindelwald seem to share a rather odd history together, which suggests they must, at a time, have had a lot in common.

"Voldemort, in his sad state of lunacy, might never have achieved anything I'd consider admirable, according to the plethora of memories Harry has offered me, but you, my boy, with the right guidance, you could come to realise your true potential. You can do great things, Tom. Greater than anything the latest centuries have seen," he tells me softly, and I do of course find some measure of pleasure in being told I have such magical potential, but beneath his flattering words, I can hear his underlying argument quite clearly.

_I am giving you the opportunity, the tools to become insanely powerful. But if you become immoral, you will not be able to use them to their full potential._

It is an excellent argument; very well orchestrated.

"Ya, ya, zis is all very touching. Now take mine, yes?" Grindelwald interrupts rather rudely, but his tone is not actually unpleasant; it is rather playful and mischievous, causing him to sound much younger than he actually is.

And so I stare a little warily at the dark box Grindwald has slid towards my general direction, and eventually extend my arms forward to grab it and then swiftly remove anything preventing me from opening it; all while Harry Potter's eyes watch me closely, protective and intense. From the wooden box I remove a thin, fragile vial made of the finest glass, filled with a pale white substance, swirling impatiently and appearing at times thick, at times diaphanous. I recognise it to be a memory, and probably a considerably ancient one, and so I raise my eyes to meet the former Dark Lord's own pools of tempest, conveying silently my confusion at the odd gift held between my hands.

"Vhenever you feel ready, you can now learn one of the vizarding vorld's greatest und oldest secrets. I am sure zat zis new… perspective vill help you understand many-a-things, ya?" he replies cryptically, his voice deep and melodious, to the unasked inquiry, and then he brings his long, bony fingers forward to rearrange a few wild strands of golden hair falling onto his forehead, lips smiling mysteriously.

I nod my head in sincere gravity, taking in Grindelwald's simultaneously exciting and worrisome statement, and I decide not to insolently push for any more information; memories tend to be self-explanatory anyway, and whenever I have the time and will to access and experience this one, I shall.

* * *

I finally turn my face towards the green man, for it is now his turn to offer me whatever present he has chosen to give, and find his handsome face slightly troubled, his sharp features betraying reluctance and uncertainty as his magic brings forth a medium-sized, glossy wooden case. At the sight, I feel an emotion of fondness slowly spreading inside my generally cold and desolate chest, for I know that this incredible man, this excellent wizard, is actually worried about whether I am going to like his gift or not, and I find that both illogical and endearing.

I run my fingers along the shiny wooden case, and even as I am still fully ignorant as far as its contents go, I feel a calm joy coming to me at the thought that this is not an offering one of these pathetic, infatuated females at Hogwarts, and it is not a gift given simply because tradition requires so; it is a present from someone who cares about. I don't even care what the actual gift it; I am already grateful for the sincerity of its intentions.

Once again, a considerably portion of my personality is nauseated by the emotions I seem to be experiencing towards the young wizard, calling me weak, pitiful and nauseating; and yet, it is beyond my power to change this, and thus I try my best to make peace with my new-found feelings.

I do open the case anyway, slowly and tenderly, with long, ghostly fingers lifting up its upper part, and come face to face with a rather exquisitely crafted violin, the smell of old wood, heavy and refined, hitting my nostrils almost instantly. It's nothing too extravagant or recherché really: it's simply a muggle instrument; and yet I find myself observing it with amazement, as if it a wondrous, splendid object. Quite honestly, part of the reason I am feel so taken with Potter's choice is that, despite its rather disappointing simplicity, it is actually something I've been wanting; I've been toying with the idea of teaching myself some music lately, or I find it to be one of most elegant branches of human creativity.

But how on earth did Potter actually know that?

And then I remember.

_**My name is Tom Riddle. I am a Slytherin, and I enjoy books, spellcraft and music. I have no parents, and no pets. I am fond of studying**__**.**_

My introduction towards him when he'd been brought to class as a new teaching assistant had included music as something I enjoy, as I recall, and it was perhaps the only time I'd ever mentioned being partial to anything whatsoever outside of magical academia. Despite a rather loud voice inside my intricate mind underlining that I am being pathetic, ridiculous, weak and nauseating, I find myself rather moved by the fact the green man had noted my, only fleetingly uttered, fondness for music.

"Are you suggesting it as a professional career, or simply as a hobby?" I ask playfully, using humour to cover up my rather shaken emotional state as I take hold of the instrument gently and lift it up to the height of my chin, letting my eyes enjoy its flowing shape, its beautiful, enchanting curves and its deep, mahogany colour. Strangely enough, it is Gobble-gore that intervenes and speaks out, before the time-traveler has even the slightest chance of formulating the beginning of a reply, and he beams a large, eerie smile at me.

"Well, my boy, I am sure you already know that any decent Charm Master can make a violin perform without the need of a musician. Therefore, in the wizarding world, a technically perfect musical performance is the mundane, easily obtainable musical product. Few are the musicians ever to have made a career amongst wizards, and it was solely because of how their music _felt._ What they had put into it. I think that music suits you a great deal, young Riddle, but take heed. Warm imperfection is worth ten times more than cold precision. You have to put your soul into it," he rambles in his usual grandfatherly manner, his washed-out blue eyes twinkling in a rather disquieting way and his brow creasing into the shape of benevolent thoughtfulness.

"I believe you might be underestimating just how heinous the state of my soul is. I doubt anyone would like to listen to that," I bite back bitterly, and I unwillingly find myself filled with the cold fire of anger, as if the old coot had been meaning to insult me and ridicule me; although I am of course that these were not his actual intentions.

It is then that Potter finally decides to speak.

"You'd be surprised," he whispers.

* * *

...

Potter's PoV

With the violin held up to his chin, he looks absurdly beautiful. Monstrously beautiful, even.

His long, dark eyelashes are casted down, and so the endless, crystalline blue of his eyes is barely visible. He is observing the instrument. And I am observing him.

The pale, porcelain skin makes a startling contrast next the dark wooden object. It almost radiates. His lips, perfectly defined, are slightly parted, and his hair is falling gently to the side. His slim, elegant frame, masculine and square-shouldered but delicate, is breathtaking. A slender arm is held out and placed onto the instrument, with long fingers resting gently onto the wood.

He is so stunning that it no longer brings forth emotions of desire, admiration or awe. He is genuinely frightening. He causes a deep, unexplainable, existential terror to hit the surface. A fear hidden deep inside the human soul.

The fear of things inhuman, unearthly.

Much like the biblical Lucifer, I notice, he is potentially the most perfect angel and the most terrifying, merciless demon. So much greed, so much ambition, so much cruelty, vengefulness, arrogance, coldness, hatred and fear behind his faultless, charismatic façade.

I am almost afraid to love him.

_But then again, isn't foolhardiness the archetypal Gryffindor weapon?_

_And isn't wide, reckless, ever-encompassing love the thing I'm best known for?_


	35. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: I don't claim Harry Potter. I'd rather claim Ender's Game. Or Through A Scanner Darkly. Or maybe the Left Hand of Darkness.

A/N: Law School's pretty time-consuming. Anyway, on with the angsty monologues and unresolved sexual tension.

To Violet: Interesting suggestion. I might get around to doing that eventually, but not until I am done with the current arch of the story.

Rubedo Jr: Another insightful, analytical and slightly unnerving review. I love these. You should try going professional; you know, sell your superbly written opinions on literature to the New Yorker of something.

To WelcomeToTheAsylum: Socks. Well, considering his sister was constantly locked inside, I reckoned it might have been quite possible that she'd been knitting. It was popular back in the days, even with the younger women. Maybe it would have the been the sort of gift she would have given him; humble and personal, instead of obscure and extravagant. Thanks for the suggestions and info, too. And as far as Tom's name goes, they would have probably called him "Riddle", in the same way that most students later called Draco "Malfoy".

Also, you are being AWESOME for having noticed that the narrative styles of Tom and Potter have been becoming increasingly similar. It is _INTENDED_. And I am just hyper with glee that someone finally noticed it.

To Tannne: I am glad you got back to reading this story. I know it's style makes it rather inaccessible at first, but you should blame Tom Riddle for that. Gellert's accent was indeed inspired by the effort Rowling put into Fleur's, Krum's and Hagrid's accents, but it's NOT a realistic German accent. I should know, I'm from Luxembourg. I'm simply poking fun at Germanic people here, affectionately. And yes, by ya I mean 'ja', it's simply that if I actually wrote the German word, most English readers would pronounce 'j' the way it is pronounced in 'jump'. So I simply transcribed it phonetically.

WARNINGS: Over 100,000 hits. Over 500 reviews. This story is becoming… *gasp* _mainstream_.

* * *

Chapter 35

Potter's PoV

After we retreat to our room, I realise that I am suddenly, for a reason that I am not sure I understand, uncomfortable with Tom Riddle's presence. He stands there, violin in hand, and simply looks at me, his face still and undecipherable. I nearly shiver. His unnerving beauty and the way he holds my humble gift so tenderly is somehow disquieting. It is, in fact, making my heart beat strongly, and I really resent that. I excuse myself and decide to go enjoy a lukewarm shower. I feel his clear, calm eyes following me as I walk out of our shared room.

The moon is yet to wane, and its pale light is all the light I need. I fix the water temperature using the ancient, rusty valves, and then simply stand there, stupidly, with wet hair partially covering my face. Why I am fleeing away from Tom, I wonder, since it is me who is meant to be reaching out to him? It is me who is supposed to be trying to take down his fierce defences, to grab him and pull him out of his psychotic reality. And yet here I am, trying desperately not to close the distance between us, trying to deny the fact that things are not going the way I'd planned.

_Not the way I'd planned at all._

And then I try to steer my mind away from him, his horrifying beauty, terrified of the possibility of becoming aroused, and what this would make me. Not a sick man really, for Tom is not exactly a child, nor have I ever in any away abused of his trust. But a weak man certainly, and a pitiful one; just another wizard to have fallen prey to the boy's extraordinary charms. I expected better from myself, to be honest. I'd somehow thought I'd be totally immune to his charisma, hardened and weathered by the horrors of war.

I probably would have been, had he been trying to manipulate me through sexual seduction in a way obvious to me.

But now, now that he is offering me a little piece of his soul, enclosed in an old notebook… Now that he is following me with his eyes so clear and open and sincere, it is too tempting to believe that every feeling he's shown for me is _genuine_. And it is this vulnerability of his, this terrible fragility behind his spotless perfection and cruelty that I simply can't resist. My chest aches as the water streams down my scarred torso.

The shower was not the best of ideas it seems, for my mind is finding now the opportunity to torture me with all the things I'd rather not think about. I get out of the way of the water, suddenly eager to distract my thoughts.

Fuck this. I'm not wearing robes or a nightgown again, I decide suddenly, and I transfigure the piece of cloth into a casual pair of jeans. They did exist back in the fourties, too, albeit reserved for rather undistinguished people, and so I shouldn't be causing too much of an anachronism issue.

I need to feel like _me_ again.

My hair is still dripping. I briefly consider drying it by magical means, but decide against it. When I do that, it tends to become even wilder than it usually is, oddly enough, and I am really tired of black strands getting in the way of my sight. I pick a towel and place it around my neck; until my stupid coif dries up a little I can't conjure a shirt, for I would be stuck using drying spells on it every couple of seconds in order to avoid getting it soaked.

I wrap the small towel around my chest and hold it like some kind of cape as I make my way back to the guest room. Before I even reach the door, I stop, suddenly becoming aware of my partial nudity and Tom's tendency to misunderstand intentions. I certainly do not want to produce yet more tension between us, I conclude, and decide to wait here until my magically stubborn hair decides to stop being dreadfully wet. And as I wait, I notice the quiet sounds of a few awkward notes played on a string instrument.

Riddle's first, uncertain attempts at using his violin, I realise fondly. Small, clumsy, endearing sounds of reluctant experimentation. Damn me. It is terribly heart-warming really, because I can discern his embarrassed uncertainty in the quivering volume of the notes. I guess he is not used to doing anything he not already obscenely good at. Nonetheless, he keeps trying relentlessly, until the output produced becomes somewhat coherent, musically. Notes become clearer, more even, and soon they are stringed one after the other in his early attempts at creating a melody.

Witnessing his genius is nearly a mystical experience. He has only just received this rather difficult instrument, and yet he is working on it ardently, and he is, through trial and error, already managing to play. I stand there for a while longer, and soon the earlier clumsiness of inexperience gives way to confidence and understanding. He is beginning to grasp the technique, I note, and he is quickly mastering the basic skills required to play a melody.

It's exquisite. Although I can't see him, all his intellect, his genius, his refinement and his will are there for me to hear as he struggles to tame his new possession.

It occurs to me, after a while, that my hair has long since stopped dripping. And that I am a fool, standing there, dangerously enraptured by a few musical experiments. I make my way to the door, and decide it is time for me to sleep. My mind is far too tired to be dealing with so much. I twist the doorknob and take a step in, finding Riddle in front of the window, violin placed under his chin.

* * *

It is only when he very softly places the instrument onto his bed and takes a few reluctant and seemingly bewildered steps towards me, that I realise I've never actually conjured that shirt. His eyes trail down the skin visible between the two sides of the towel, with uncertainty, and it occurs to me he must be thinking I'm doing this on purpose. He is probably already trying to analyse the possible reasons behind it, too. I curse myself for making an already awkward situation even worse with my thoughtlessness.

Actually, I feel like running away from his questioning gaze. Only I am rooted to the ground, waiting for him to draw whatever conclusions he might be drawing.

He takes another small step to my direction, and he lets his eyes run up and down my body in a surprisingly unembarrassed scrutiny. His face becomes cool and collected once again, despite his initial surprise. Nevertheless, his lips are still slightly parted in mild fascination.

"You have acquired quite a lot of scars," he finally states, uttering each word separately in a Snape-ish manner. I realise that he is staring at the massive scar line nearly splitting my abdomen in two. I am not sure whether I should be delighted and relieved by his controlled reaction, or creeped out by his ability to hide his feelings. A hint of dark fascination shines behind his eyes though, and I find it a little disturbing that he'd be so morosely interested in my heinous scars.

"I know. See now why I told you that yours are of no aesthetical consequence whatsoever?" I reply, and I try to sound as factual as I can within the bounds of this uneasy situation. When he lifts a hand and places it gently on the terrible cicatrix though, I wince a little, unwillingly. Furthermore, I feel oddly compelled to pull him in and crush him against my chest.

The sensation of his cold, smooth fingers on me is simultaneously frightening and strangely pleasant. Nonetheless, I withdraw from his touch, afraid of the consequences of such contact.

"As horrible as they are, they do suit you. They are like… a signature testifying to your courage," he whispers, his voice a little hoarse and thick with something that I refuse to identify. But then his eyes become cold and sharp and distant, his jaw tightening. A shadow passes through his heavenly features, dark and anguished.

"This one… Was it… Voldemort?" he asks, and he seems unable to tear his eyes off the large, deep scar running down my torso. His face seems paler than usual, as if he's seen a ghost, and his hand is still hanging there, midair. There is pain and fear behind the mask of his beauty, and there is internal conflict; he seems sincerely horrified at the thought he might be the one to have given me this scar, and yet darkly fascinated.

"I didn't mean for you to see this. I am simply too used to living alone," I mutter, my tone low and apologetic, avoiding to verbally confirm what he is already suspecting, but essentially confirming it nonetheless. Honesty is crucial to me. He nods slowly, taking in the unpleasant piece of information.

"I understand. Living alone, you must have had nothing to hide from yourself," he murmurs, but I can tell that he is not really focused on his words, for they sound slightly absent-minded. Instead, he is focused on my half-bared chest. At least he does believe me in that I did not plan this uncomfortable situation for whatever sick reason. "But it's alright. It's a perfect reminder for both of us of who I am, and who I could have possibly been," he adds darkly, an unmentionable sadness, aching and vibrant, in his voice.

"Tom…" I begin, but my unfinished sentence trails into silence. I try again.

"Tom, you shouldn't have seen this. Neither me nor the scars. I'm sorry. I was not in any way trying to… taunt you or... provoke a reaction," I manage to utter with a strong intake of air, taking another step back, and feeling terribly guilty about the pain in Riddle's eyes. To my surprise, he chuckles at this, his eyes a little humid.

"You're sorry for what? That you bear a testimony to my own monstrosity? That you are so gloriously attractive in spite of it? Or that I…" he never finishes that sentence, because his voice breaks there, but I swear I can see his lips moving to the shape of the unsaid words.

_Or that I desire you?_

I might be wrong. I must be wrong. I was never good with reading lips, really. Tonks was amazing with it, and of course Mad-Eye… But not me.

I am probably just wrong.

But underneath the slight angst, his gaze is burning with an icy, possessive fire that I couldn't possibly be misreading. Suddenly he does not resemble an angel at all; all his frailty, his elegance is gone. He looks like a tormented predator, and I feel like_ prey_. I take another step back, taken aback by the violent internal conflict taking place before my eyes. Such a dark, greedy desire, laced with self-disgust and self-hatred, looks so wrong on a young, endearing face.

My back thumps against the closed door.

* * *

"I heard you playing before," I mention suddenly, a complete non-sequitur. An awkward defence. I am not sure why I'd choose to say this now, but I guess it must by a subconscious attempt to well… change the unspoken subject. Oddly enough and at my great surprise, it seems to work a little, for his attention is now focused on my words. He cocks an eyebrow.

"You had no sheets before you. So whatever primitive melody you produced was something you had inside you, and it was beautiful. You can't be as bad as you describe yourself," I quickly add, improvising reluctantly and trying to shift this conversation towards Riddle's inner struggle rather than his attraction to me. This time it appears I've said the wrong thing, for his features harden once again, shaping up into sharp angles.

"Beauty has nothing to do with evil, or lack thereof, you _naïve_ man. Why people always tend to, even subconsciously, create a correlation between the two, I'll never understand," he observes dryly and coldly, and he averts his eyes from me. He does have a point, I know. But that does not make him any less wrong. A few moments of tense, strained silence pass between us. During this unpleasant moment, I finally conjure myself a proper shirt, and transfigure my jeans into a pair of loose sports' pants. Attire I can sleep into comfortably, and that doesn't give away any of me at all.

"Oh, it is time to sleep then, isn't it?" he eventually says, quite venomously, staring at my new appearance. And although it probably is time to rest indeed, I know that it would not resolve anything. I need to take action before the space between us widens even more.

"Tom… That scar was Voldemort. Not you. Crimes against me that you have not even committed do not make you any less entitled to seek warmth and comfort, or… to be… experiencing this attraction. I am not uncomfortable with that because I find it morally wrong. It's simply because neither of us would be able to handle it yet. Otherwise, I am not repulsed by you, in spite of all that's wrong with you. I'd like to believe you can be stronger than all that darkness in you is," I murmur softly, and I place my hand on his turned back. At first his lithe form remains still. Then he turns around slowly, his eyes unreadable and stormy.

"Read my diary. If then you can still repeat these same words, I'll believe you," he states simply, and he retreats to his bed. Silence reigns.

I pick up the somewhat tattered notebook and settle into mine.

_[Tom Riddle's Diary, random passages]_

_**Saturday 23th of June 1934 **__[Tom's age, 7,5]_

_**Diary,**_

_**The children are like a disease, really. They destroy whatever they touch, like the plague. They savage the small selection of books the school has. They throw food at one another, like morons. They make so much noise that I cannot fulfil even the simplest task with them around.**_

_**I despise them. Every single one of them, Diary.**_

_**I want to see them suffer, but I know that feeling like this is wrong. So I try to hide it.**_

_**Monday 21**__**st**__** of October 1933 **__[Tom's age, 7]_

_**Diary,**_

_**I destroyed the windowsills again. I didn't actually do it on purpose this time, unlike the time before. I was simply very angry with this idiot, Paul, and unable to control my abilities again. He was throwing little bits of bread at me during lunch, thinking I wouldn't realise, as if I was some kind of retard. He is fourteen actually, and he should be sitting with the other high school students, only he is trying to impress the younger kids by proving he is not afraid of me. Oh how terribly courageous of him, bullying kids half his size.**_

_**I didn't react, because too many people were present.**_

_**But if I find him alone, I just might accidently pretend he's the windowsills.**_

_**Tuesday 18**__**th**__** of December 1936 **__[Tom's age, 10]_

_**Diary,**_

_**I had another fairly unpleasant dream tonight, during which I found myself drowning inside the dark, murky waters of a lake filled with rotting bodies. I am improving at ignoring these visions though, and I did not let the dream bother me today.**_

_**My plans involving my delicious revenge against Timothy are coming along nicely, and soon he will learn the consequences of treating me without respect.**_

_**Adriana **__**is being her usual, disgusting self again, and she is trying to restrict my access to the tomes inside the Headmistress' office. It doesn't matter. I'm becoming better by the day at controlling these unusual things I can make happen, and it will be easy enough to distract her with some catastrophe while I sneak into the office I borrow whatever books I wish. The Headmistress is never there anyway; she is too busy now that she is getting married.**_

_**Books might be a pleasant refuge for me when I become sick with the people surrounding me, but they also underline a reality that I have learned to accept. They describe petty conflicts, pathetic emotions; they prove to me that even outside the walls of this pathetic school, I am far superior to other humans. That's simply how it is.**_

_**Wednesday 7**__**th**__** July 1935 **__[Tom's age, 8,5]_

_**Diary.**_

_**I will murder him soon;**__** if anything is for sure, that is. He is nauseating. He reads those stupid stories to me, about bad wolves and innocent sheep as if I am some kind of child. He is lucky that I do would not want to return to the orphanage, and therefore do not intend to kill him before I find a better place to stay.**_

_**When I do, he will pay for all the disgusting kisses on the cheek I had to sit through. I will kill him in a very slow, painful matter. And I will probably rip his eyes out, too, because I hate the way he looks at me.**_

_**Sunday 3**__**rd**__** of April 1938 **__[Tom's age, 11,5]_

_**Diary.**_

_**I have decided that I should start searching for this legendary Chamber of Secrets right away, for even someone like me might need some time to discover something that Salazar himself chose to hide within the walls of this castle. Even if it will not necessarily be an easy objective, I am hoping that I will need no more than three years to discover both the location of the Chamber and the way to manipulate whatever monster resides inside.**_

_**I have recently concluded that whatever powerful and glorious weapon my ancestor has buried within this castle is, it must be a sentient one; quite a few passages from the tomes I stole from Malfoy seem to suggest that, actually, and I do find it very much like Salazar, seeing as he was always one to experiment on the limits of life itself.**_

_**Seeing as he would have wanted his heir and his heir only to be able to acquire the power of**__** such a weapon, the magical creature or whatever other sentient being should probably be controllable through the use of Parseltongue. My best guesses are an Ancient Drake or a Hydra, but I will not go as far as to write off a Basilisk or an Ouroboros.**_

_**Soon enough, Diary, the power of Salazar's legacy will be in my hands, and the world shall know pain; for pain is all the world has given me, and it deserves nothing better. Humans are nothing but pitiful, nauseating insects, and death shall come to all of them but me.**_

_**I shall live forever**__**.**_

_**25**__**th**__** of September 1932 **__[Tom's age, 6]_

_**Diary,**_

_**Kristen's rabbit is annoying me a great deal, and I am seriously considering harming it. It would serve her right, too. I really dislike her and her shrieks, the way she widens her eyes all the time and constantly makes the most unpleasant sorts of noise.**_

_**But if I want to get vengeance on her I will have to be swift, because Helena says that someone is filling in paperwork to adopt me. I guess it must be this blabbering fool that came to visit the orphanage the other day, and was babbling nonsense about what a sweet boy I seem to be.**_

_**It doesn't matter, as long as he is a ticket out of this dull, uninteresting prison.**_

_**30**__**th**__** of December 1939 **__[Tom's age, 13]_

_**Diary,**_

_**I did event**__**ually manage to persuade Regina Parkinson to lend me that most peculiar tome of magical history she mentioned having found somewhere inside her father's office; and surely enough, it was both a refreshingly original and most interesting read, although I doubt the Parkinsons have any idea just how valuable this object could be.**_

_**After having carefully examined the passages relating to the cultural hab**__**its and social behaviour of the Sikh Naga, as well as their migration patterns, I have decided that their loyalty to fellow serpents and powerful magic will make them most excellent allies for my upcoming war.**_

_**Furthermore, they are said to be the species to have first developed the ancestor of what Muggles now call 'martial arts', the Kalari Payattu; a technique both elegant and deadly. **__**In the light of this achievement as well as their seemingly extraordinary competence in various forms of magical dueling, it appears that they would not only make a valuable addition to my ranks, but also present me with an opportunity to learn from them and improve my own arts of war.**_

_**I have thus decided to incorporate a visit to their gr**__**ounds during one of the many voyages I have planned for after I graduate from this worthless school; perhaps I could combine it with the research I wish to conduct on the Ayurvedan medicine and potion-making in India.**_

_**Generally, I shall look further into the matter of creating alliances with magical creatures outside of European ground; it should not be too hard too**__** convince even the most speciesist purebloods that such cooperation might be necessary in order to achieve our short-term goals.**_

I read this last part again, my hands nearly trembling at the frighteningly calculating mind and the terrible violence hidden behind the words of a child that is only just thirteen, and _already planning a full-fledged coup d'état_. The very small light hovering over the book flickers due to the fluctuation in my magic. My magic always seems to quiver when I experience strong feelings.

It is then that it occurs to me exactly how huge a gesture this gift must have been from Tom's point of view. He is offering me a full view of his most sick and hateful thoughts, of his moments of weakness. He is giving me the chance to truly get to know him, which is exactly, precisely what I have been trying to do. His present is both intimate and bold, brave and considerate, even if its content is little more than the sadistic horrors flowing out of a damaged mind. Is he perhaps trying to give me a final warning, subconsciously, about just what I am getting myself into?

Well, no matter. It is too late now to pull myself back in terror.

* * *

I close the worn-out diary, still feeling a little disturbed, and I put out the small light hovering over my head. Across the room, the Slytherin boy is lying with his face against the wall and his back turned to me, but I seriously doubt he has actually fallen asleep yet. In fact, I am sure that he is still wide awake, trying discreetly to interpret my possible gasps and changes in breathing rhythm as I read his diary entries.

"You are not asleep Tom, so why don't you turn around so that we can discuss this?" I mutter softly, so that if he has actually fallen to sleep, as improbable as it is, he will not wake at my words. It turns out that, predictably, he is still fully awake, and so he turns around in silence, his piercing eyes glistening oddly. His face looks as pale as the pillow it is resting against.

"I read a few entries," I state factually, also shifting my weight around so that I can lie to my side, in a manner mirroring his. Despite the distance between our beds, I can tell that I am making him uncomfortable, for he recoils a bit to the back of his own mattress. For a moment he simply stares at me, coolly and aloofly, his visage perfectly still.

"What is there to discuss?" he eventually asks, and I am a little upset to find that he is still in a rather venomous mood, his tone annoyed and acidic. His question though is rather spot on, since I am not exactly sure what I wanted to tell him in the first place.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that I am not shocked by any of this. I am actually grateful to have been given the chance to understand you better. I have already _seen _the worst of you, Riddle. I have it etched across my chest, for fuck's sake, and on my forehead; I have it visiting me in my nightmares. If I were to resent you for this, I already would. I suppose, in part, I already do. But I still care for you. And you said that if I could say so even after reading your diary, you'd believe me; so I call you to your word. Stop trying to scare me off. It comes across at a rather desperate attempt to avoid emotional proximity," I observe, my last sentence a little sassy, but with a bittersweet smile across my face. My voice sounds softer than I thought it would, but the hardness on his face does not melt away.

He keeps his unsettling gaze pinned on me.

He seems to be processing my argument, and maybe even accepting it. The angles on his face eventually smoothen, and he looks like something I'd like to throw against a wall and kiss brutally.

"I never thought I'd hear someone call me _desperate..._" he suddenly replies, and his face breaks into a slightly silly smirk. I watch in awe as his previously icy demeanor slowly turns into a face of slightly seductive irony. The metamorphosis is somewhat abrupt, but very, very pleasant. I smile back at him.

"If it's any consolation, I think that most of the things that you are desperate to avoid are the things most people are desperate _for,_ so you can keep feeling special if you want," I point out and feel my curved lips turning into a smarmy smirk. "I'd also like to note that your mood swings resemble those of a pregnant woman," I add, whispering conspiratorially.

"I'm not use to even having moods _at all_, Potter. Anything but slightly contemptuous indifference is new to me, so I plead with you to show some understanding," he responds, and I find myself strangely attracted to his odd sense of sarcasm. It is relieving that he now manages to defeat his easily provoked bouts of ire and self-hatred. His features look somewhat amused, and more relaxed than before.

"It's alright. I used to be married to a Weasley woman, once. I can take anything," I answer with a vague gesture of dismissal, and I attempt to throw at him a playful glint of the eyes. He looks mildly disgusted, and quite scornful.

"A _Weasley_…? Really now. And to think I was slightly disappointed when I realised this entire shirtless incident wasn't a planned attempt to provoke me sexually," Tom Riddle mutters, a slightly exaggerated look of nausea twisting his face. Once again, I catch myself appreciating his rather untraditional sense of humour. It is the fact that he is actually flirting with me that I find disconcerting. Nonetheless, I decide to respond. Or actually, despite my better judgement, I feel _compelled _to respond, for he is simply too criminally attractive to dismiss.

"Oh, I've improved my standards since. I am now only into eerily charismatic underage sociopaths, apparently," I respond miserably. In all seriousness, it is rather shocking to think of it that way, and very much absurd.

"How convenient. A pity you are still too... morally upstanding to give in to said individuals while they are still unfortunately confined in their woefully underage body," he whispers, and I discover that he has moved to the edge of his bed, eyeing me intensely. This is becoming very dangerous, I realise.

_Very, very dangerous._

It is crossing the boundaries of disturbing teasing and flirty sarcasm, and moving into the realm of genuine sexual seduction.

His eyes shine in the darkness, and his skin looks frighteningly smooth. His hair, neatly parted to the side, is dark and glossy and it frames his face in all the right ways. The shape of his face is nearly calligraphic. A bone structure muggle models would kill for, I think absently. Merlin, this is _difficult._

"In a few days it's my fourteenth birthday anyway, so if you'd like you can delude yourself into thinking that since I am technically entering the fifteenth year of my life, that makes me fifteen," he murmurs, smirking deeply at me.

"A tempting offer, but no," I reply. "I am here to prevent you from becoming the worst thing that has happened to wizardkind since Ramses the Second. It is that purpose that drove me to abandon all I held dear, and it gives meaning to my life. I cannot compromise that simply because I find myself attracted to you, Riddle. I need to show you compassion, tenderness, empathy and care before we can move onto any of the thornier subjects in human behaviour such as lust. And stuff."

"You make it sound like a Mastery internship, which requires a few NEWTs that I don't have yet. How cynical of you," he says, mockingly but not derisively. Then his features become a little colder. "Have you ever considered that perhaps it would be beneficial to your cause for me to become deeply infatuated with you? In your position, other would have sought to take advantage of this attraction," he adds in a matter-of-factly manner that seems inappropriate, since we are presumably discussing _our emotions_.

"In my position, others would have simply murdered you as you sleep, for the good of humankind. And if they still couldn't resist your charm, they might have kept your dead body around for intimate company or something," I observe, rolling my eyes and feeling like a very, very childish Gryff.

For a second he looks torn between disgust and fascination.

"Merlin, Potter. I never thought of you as the kind of person who'd be able to mouth something as twisted as that. I can't decide if I am aroused or simply shocked. Point taken, anyway. I must admit I'm glad you decided against killing me," he states, and although we are now in the process of exchanging witty retorts, I still can't shake the uncomfortable feeling that this shouldn't be happening. I decide to follow my instinct, and put a halt to it.

"Well we should sleep now, Riddle," I mutter a little passively, and retreat to the depths of my sheets. He simply hums his agreement, a little coolly.

* * *

Tom's PoV

Since I am in a particularly odd emotional state, combining confusion, resentment and arousal, I decide not to dwell on my conversation with Potter anymore; instead I lose my eyes, feeling my eyelids heavy, my mind tired with the analysing of so many complex gifts and my body numb. Turning my gaze once more towards my powerful but unsettlingly gentle signature-twin, I run my eyes over his features one last time before I let sleep overtake me.

_**I find myself chained against a cold, crumbling wall, the sensation of moist moss **__**unpleasant against my bare skin, and the winds blowing hard and frigid onto my body. A body full of wounds, bleeding and broken, naked and destroyed; and it is then that I realise I am in terrible pain, an excruciating agony rippling through me. And yet, screaming is an act I find both humiliating and a sign of weakness, and thus I keep my mouth shut, despite having to bite my lips down to the point where blood streams down my mouth.**_

_**A figure approaches me, covered with a dark cape; a black outline against the pale, reddish, morose colour of the twilight sky. With quiet, slow steps the ominous stranger approaches me, until a small glimpse of the face hidden underneath his heavy hood allows me to indentify him; a small glimpse revealing two brilliant, hard green eyes. He takes his hood off and reveals his face, war-worn and heavy with grief, cold and scarred, a face that I barely recognise to be the face of a young Harry Potter. Immediately it occurs to me that this is what he must have looked like during the wars he lived through; cruel, tired and detached.**_

"_**You bring only destruction. Everywhere you go, war and pain come with you. You are a monster," he states, his voice echoing in the cold void, neutral and factual, but his eyes burning with a will as strong as fire. An endless landscape of death and decay surrounds us, the only wall left standing being the wall my damaged body's chained to, and the only wizard standing being the war wizard standing before me.**_

"_**Potter…" I hiss, but no**__** coherent sound escapes my parted lips, for my physical encasement is simply too broken to function, and the unbearable pain shooting through my mind clouds my ability to formulate even a simple word. And yet, I can tell with certainty that he has heard me, for he digs his sharp, gleaming gaze into mine, and then throws his head back, and laughs.**_

_**He laughs, and the sound resonates inside my numb, twisted mind; a sound sick, tired, desperate, wrong. This cannot be the Harry Potter I know, I think to myself, and I find fear gripping my heart at the sight of his emotionless, crazed features. He leans towards me and digs his fingernails violently into my bare chest, his mouth approaching my ear in a manner sadistic and seductive.**_

"_**I tried my best to spare us from this fate, Tom. But the darkness inside you is simply too much for me to tame. You bring nothing but agony. Nothing but hell," he whispers into my ear, his tone hateful and thick with a deeply disturbing possessiveness.**_

"_**Potter…" I try again, but it is a distorted croak that leaves my lungs, for the gashing wounds on my abdomen do not allow me to breathe in a way natural for a human. Suddenly overwhelmed by terror, I lift my left hand, one that happens to be free of heavy, rusting chains, and place it on Harry's chest, in a desperate attempt to push him back; and it is then that I see my hand for what it is: a bloodied mass of stumps.**_

"_**You know what they say. Stare into the abyss for too long, and the abyss will stare back into you," he murmurs darkly, and our lips collide in a kiss cruel, harsh and pitiless.**_

_**The last thing I remember is the intoxicating, metallic taste of blood between our tongues.**_

I wake up drowned in sweat again, my lungs empty and quivering and my mind blank with horror; but worst of all, I wake up feeling sexual arousal shooting through my stomach. Dear Morgana, _what is wrong with me_, I wonder as I try to catch my breath again and regulate my crazed heartbeat.

What the seven bloody layers of hell is wrong with me, so that I could possibly be aroused by a vision of such pain and horror?

The image of this angry, dominant, cruel Potter is still flashing in my mind, and suddenly it occurs to me that, since our signature blending bond cause our dreams to influence one another, there could quite possibly be some truth in what I saw.

I throw the covers away from my still trembling body and I immediately get off the humid mattress; I walk swiftly and desperately towards Potter's bed, and place both my hands on him, nudging for him to wake as a wave of panic rises inside my chest. His large, bright eyes flick open, hazy at first and then focused, and he places them on me, concern apparent on his face.

"You are not as morally spotless as you'd like to be, are you, Potter? You've slaughtered people surely, and perhaps even enjoyed it in a few cases, didn't you? And you eventually stopped mourning for the lives of the innocent, when your eyes ran dry and your mind became numb, no? One could say that, in a sense, you have been lying to me, having yourself appear as a representative of everything that's good and right, when deep inside you certainly hold your own share of dark urges, do you not?" I question him aggressively, barely registering that he is not the Potter of my dream, but simply a young wizard who's only just woken, and is probably staring at me with large, confused eyes.

Only he isn't. Although he was sound asleep only a few seconds ago, he seems oddly lucid and perfectly aware of what I am talking about; in fact, his eyes meet mine knowingly, and his gaze darkens.

"I've no idea why you suddenly want to talk about this, but I didn't actually fool you in any way, Riddle. I told you from the start that I am a man that's seen through much bloodshed, and I did mention myself to be damaged by the life I've led. I never painted myself in light colours; it is you who viewed me that way," he replies, and he sounds little like the man I was playfully exchanging retorts with just a few hours ago; he appears older, hardened and maybe even a little distant. He is right though, since it is true that it is I that chose to think of him as some kind of pinnacle of Light, some kind of angel; he truly never did act like one, despite his gestures of compassion.

It is I who constructed this shining ideal of him, that I now find crumbling before my eyes, and it can not in any way be blamed on him.

"Forgive me for disturbing your sleep. I simply had a worrisome epiphany, I suppose," I mutter quietly, avoiding to meet his eyes; but he still grabs my hand and pulls it into his, warming my naturally cool digits. "I had a rather vivid dream of you torturing me cruelly in the midst of a burning battlefield, and I guess the fact you have actually lived through years of bloody horror and commanded military forces finally sank in, in a rather abrupt manner," I choose to add, attempting to clarify the reasons behind my rather unreasonable outburst and feeling the odd urge to remove my hand from his grip.

He says nothing at first, his gaze lowered and his handsome visage contorted in a pensive expression, one laced with secrets and regrets; only after a few seconds does he let his lips part, lifting his head to me.

"I… did mention how close I came to becoming some kind of Voldemort myself, Tom. There are no saints…" he begins, and when I meet his steady glare, I discover it to be quite unlike what it usually is; it seems stripped of any goofiness or warmth, bare and grey.

"I'll be honest with you. Sometimes, when I think of all the pain and loss you represent to me, I do find the idea of hurting you appealing. Which doesn't in any way negate how deeply I care about you, of course. It's like… But then again, I am sure you feel the same way yourself, so I doubt I need to explain myself," he finally concludes, his voice soft and bittersweet, but with an odd streak of cruelty that simply sounds wrong coming from his mouth.

I know exactly what he is talking about though, for I can only too clearly recall that nightmare of his he allowed me to witness; the one in which Voldemort had him pined against a war-broken tree much like the way I was chained onto that crumbling wall, and had leaned into him in a way both elegant and psychotic, whispering violent, cruel things into his ears in a most disturbingly erotic manner.

I will not claim I did not discern the odd sadomasochistic undercurrents of his dream, nor could I possibly proclaim that a small, twisted part of me did not find them oddly appealing.

"There's a positive aspect to all of this. If we both go to hell, we will most certainly go there together," I state a little dispassionately, and I obey my desire to lean against his chest, mesmerised by the surrealism of the moment. He recoils a little, but does not actually retract his broad abdomen; and there we stand, much like two awkward mannequins frozen in time I imagine, barely even breathing.

"Yes. A form of additional punishment," he observes wryly, wrapping his toned arms around me with a seemingly passionless but precise movement.

The expression _'we're bonding'_ comes to mind, but I most quickly dismiss it, with an internal laughter of the maniacal kind.


	36. Chapter 36

Disclaimer: Property is theft.

A/N: A new chapter, yay. It took me ages to manage to construct this chapter. We are getting closer to the end of the holidays and thus the return of our heroes to Hogwarts. But for now, let us enjoy Tom's birthday. Sorry for the huge delay, but I had this paper on the normativity of Hittite Law and…

To virtuouslioness About the sexual dynamics between Tom and Harry, I think that being the "bottom" does not make one submissive. Quite the contrary in a few cases… ;)

To PARAD0X: I enjoyed immensely your absurdly huge reviews, and thank you for them. I have only a few things to say. Having grown up in Western Europe, I am used to people becoming sexually active at around 15. This is what I consider the norm, because it –is- the norm where I come from. Furthermore, I do see Riddle as a bit of an adult trapped in a child's body, despite his emotional immaturity. I mean, would it make sense for him to be capable of murder and world domination, but not… lust? I am still not sure when I will introduce the first sexual elements, perhaps around his 16th birthday; I can just promise I will be careful with them.

To Emriel: Indeed the Slytherin house's balance will be greatly upset by Tom's slow change. Interesting things shall happen after the holidays.

To tannne: I have come up with 35 new names for Dumbledore..? Jesus, I must really not have a life. Hehe.

To Tonia: I am half-Greek myself, and "katablepw" is not an imaginary verb. It is not used in modern Greek I'll admit, but it is actually not an uncommon verb in Ancient Greek, used for example by Plutarch and also in the original Greek version of the Bible. The monster "Catoblepas" has its etymological roots there.

To all those who encouraged me to write: I love you.

* * *

Chapter 36

Dumbledore's PoV

On the other side of the double bed, Gellert is smoking his pipe gracefully and reading some fungus-infested grimoire. He looks very satisfied, I note, his lips curved upwards a little and his eyes clear. I am exceedingly fond of this adorable post-coital expression he is wearing, to be honest; and so I poke him on the ribs and offer him a large, radiant smile. He lifts his eyes away from the ancient tome and he gives me that evil, crooked smirk of his; the one that reminds me of the Cheshire cat. The heavy, mouldy book is put aside, and his hand starts slithering around my waist.

"Have I mentioned how glad I am that you decided to abandon your genocidal ambitions and join me here, kind sir?" I squeak at him, and I trail my finger down his perfect nose tenderly. He lifts an eyebrow, amused. Subsequently, I chortle in a gentlemanly way, and Fawkes makes an oddly frustrated noise.

"Ach. Vhatever vill I do now zat you'll have to go back to Hogvards? I vill bore myself to death vaiting for you in here," he mutters and he then leans in, causing our lips to meet in a well-calculated manner. He has the uncanny ability to make me feel as if I am a teenager once more, despite the fact I am now a deeply respected and influential member of the wizarding society.

Indeed he still emits the same warm and intoxicating radiance as he did when young, and yet I cannot bring myself to stop thinking about things other than him. My mind is still very much preoccupied with young Harry and his dark little protégé. Of course Gellert, who is no fool, notices my rather vacant expression, and does not refrain from commenting.

"Something seems to be on your mind, Albus. Vhat could is be?" he asks with a a low, growling purr that reminds me a little of these manticore cubs I had come across a few years back. In Libya, I think.

"Would you happen to be in any way related to manticores?" I question him as a reply, unable and unwilling to hold back my curiosity. I point my finger at him too, although it is not a gesture I decide on consciously; it's rather a mannerism years of teaching have forced upon me.

"Albus, I am sure zat was not vhat you vhere thinking about. But for zhe record, zhe only magical creatures I hold any relation to is zhe Germanic vood Elf. And it's a very distant relation," he states, accompanying his response with a vague hand gesture of nonchalant dismissal, and then narrowing his eyes a little, still waiting for my reply.

"I was actually deliberating on the odd dynamics that can develop between well-intentioned war-heroes with vast armories of childhood trauma and their young and outrageously charming sociopathic nemesis'," I kindly inform him, offering him a gentle smile as I straighten my thin wire glasses.

"You mean you vere vorrying about zese two puppies you picked up, ya?" he translates my well-mannered answer into something a little less elegant. I nonetheless nod, accepting the content-wise accuracy of his transliteration, causing him to shift his face a little, amused. I do not actually understand what he seems to be finding so amusing. I've taken a liking to both young wizards, and would be most distressed for them to end up bringing pain to not only one another, but also the rest of the world. And I do not find that pessimistic scenario to be that improbable, seeing as they are both so deeply damaged.

Furthermore, if young Tom was to fall out of the path Harry is trying to offer him, I fear he might become, now that he has already learned so much from the time-traveller, something much worse than Harry's familiar Voldemort. A corrupted wizard with a vast knowledge of both Light and Dark spellcraft and wizardry can be a foe much deadlier than any Dark Lord gone insane, and I fear that after what has transpired between Harry and the boy, young Potter might be unable to be the one to bring such a terrible tyrant down.

It takes inhuman amounts of willpower to kill someone you love.

"I am not mocking you, Albus. Believe me, I too can sense how much is at stake here. Zhat little child… It is razer frightening how much pover he already holds. Zhe most impressive levels of magical pover I have ever come across, actually. But I doubt zhere is much ve can do about zhis. It rests upon zhat time-traveler, ya? And he is more zhan competent, zhat one," he adds in a somewhat light manner, but I can see that he does understand why I'd be as concerned as I am; perhaps he is even a little concerned himself.

"Gellert, it is not always as simply as a matter of competence. Harry Potter is both an excellent wizard and an excellent person, but he is not without scars. Emotions can get out of hand quite easily between people that have both known so much pain. We should know that from experience," I mumble pensively, and I do feel much older than before, my mind filling with stern and serious thoughts. I conjure myself some biscuits, which I consume as I ponder. Soon enough, the trail of my thoughts is slightly tampered with when I feel Gellert's slim but lined arm slide around my back.

"I know Albus, I know. But zhat Potter seems villing to love everyone, and I am most certain he loves zhe boy already. Veren't you zhe one who alvays said zhat zhis is zhe most important thing of all? Zhat is is enough?" my partner says, and although is meant to be a reassuring comment, as I gather, I do not feel as thoroughly reassured as I should.

"Was it enough for us? We did love one another; that much I now know. And yet look what became of us… Had the time-traveler not told me of the manner of your future death…" I begin, and my beautiful Phoenix, sensing my troubled state, flies to my shoulder.

"Perhaps it is time I shed my naïve, green views on the power of human emotions. Much can go wrong with them," I then discover myself muttering in a tone rather grave, if not pained. "The future that young man showed me was very bleak, Gellert. There are no words to describe the consequences that the mistakes of my naivety brought upon the world. Instead of training Potter to fight a war, I trained him to cultivate his love and devotion, and in the hours when it most mattered, the education I gave him betrayed him," I conclude, and then I swiftly swallow a last bit of biscuit, grimly.

"I disagree, Albus. I think zhat maybe history vorks in non-linear vays none of us can really understand. I'll let you know something… I think zhat everything zhat is unfolding right now is part of an elaborate plan. A plan zhat I suspect to be yours, for after all, you are zhe only one to match zhat Riddle boy in strategic thinking, ya? Zhe one to have sent Harry back in such an odd manner, by re-inserting him into a timeline anew, instead of simply moving him back and keeping his existence dependant on zhe event of his birth must have been you, I believe. It vas a vision of you he saw before zhe incident, vas it not? I think zhat in zhe future wisdom of your hundred and vhatever years, you knew exactly vhat you vere doing, and vere planning for zhis to happen all along, training Potter in all zhe right ways," he whispers in an oddly naughty, conspiratory manner, his eyes gleaming eerily.

At first, I find his suggestion slightly absurd; even though I do appreciate myself quite a lot, I doubt I could have developed such a vast, intricate, far-seeing plan, whose gears I'd manage to set to move post-mortem. Nonetheless, remembering the powerful, all-knowing, twinkling eyes of Harry's future Dumbledore, I start finding Gellert's suspicion to be rather well-founded. And frightening. And also flattering, in a quaint manner.

"The notion that all this series of surreal events might be part of a gigantic game of chess my future mastermind self, beyond death and beyond time, is playing against the wheels of Fate itself is… Well, disconcerting," I observe, quickly conjuring a cup of warm, spiced tea, to help myself remain calm. The cup appears from the kitchen below, adorned with sky-blue unicorns. Its sight is reassuring.

"Does zhat fact make it any less probable? Do you think zhat a _you_ with twice as much experience would be incapable of zhat? It is, after all, your kind of style, all zhat asinine and criminally complex intellectual shenanigan, ya?" Gellert asks me sweetly, a large, tender smirk spreading across his handsome face.

"Well, I do indeed suppose it _is_ the kind of machination a _me_ that's become rather good at being me could very possibly come up with… On a second thought, wouldn't that imply that I am also manipulating my own self?" I wonder cheerily, suddenly feeling oddly amused at that concept.

"Probably. I don't think zhat vould be beneath you," Gellert suggests, cunningly stealing a sip from my tea. I deliberate on that suggestion for a few moments, petting Fawkes.

"That's a bizarrely splendid thought, though, is it not?" I eventually conclude, munching an additional cookie with my confidence and optimism restored. Ah, Gellert. He does have this lovely way of getting my spirits up, does he not?

* * *

Riddle's PoV

As a ray of cold winter light flutters onto my face, I awake somewhat abruptly, and oddly enough already conscious of the fact that today is the 31st of December, and therefore the date of my birthday. Rather displeased by that fact, since I do not appreciate how the culture of birthdays seems to suggest that maturing biologically is a process that consists of clearly defined annual steps, instead of taking the form of a gradual, smooth evolution, I step out of my warm bed and immediately come face to face with the handsome features of a certain Potter.

"Congratulations! It's your birthday," he exclaims in a tone that might have been enthusiastic, had the war wizard not been such a lazy, slow, perhaps even lackadaisical creature when it comes to early mornings. It is rather odd, I note to myself, that he seems completely unable to take anything quite seriously enough before 10am, seeing as he is by no means nonchalant or blasé by nature.

"I never quite understood why people get congratulated on the date of their birthday. This silly verbal tradition actually implies that the fact someone's birthday date has come is in some way a spectacular achievement on their part. Isn't that inane?" I wave his warm greeting off with a rather apathetic tone, realising that I am in a rather foul mood, something that of course he does not fail to notice himself. The time-traveller stares at me, his masculine eyebrows raised in slight entertainment and his eyes radiant, and then he shoots an inappropriately wide smile at me.

"Is there a reason you are so irritable today, Riddle?" he inquires while I transfigure my sleeping apparel into an elegant set of casual clothing; despite his slightly teasing tone, he appears to be genuinely concerned about the source of my ill temper, and I do wish I could help him with it. Only of course I am not sure I can, since I am not fully aware of the reason behind my cantankerous predisposition myself; my dreams were not any worse than they generally tend to be, nor was I deprived of my sleep due to some irritating nightly incident.

"Not one I know of. I suppose it has to do with the fact my birthday subconsciously causes me to think back to my biological origins, which is not a pleasant trail of thought in my case. Instead of this whole susurrus of associations leading my consciousness down the paths of my own odious roots, I'd much prefer for my mind to be able to just languorously enjoy its lassitude, you know. It is rather early, too. But no; since it is my birthday, my grey matter somehow feels obligated to involve itself in some kind of obscure existential process involving the concepts of Life, Death, Time, Age and Existence," I mutter grimly, and it occurs to me that I actually did manage to pinpoint the reason behind my seemingly unreasonable irritation rather effectively.

"When you are in a bad mood your sentences come out like long strings of presumptuous prose. Have you noticed?" He suddenly asks me, his voice strangely tender, and I guess he must be finding this quirk of mine rather endearing, judging from the warmth radiating through his death-coloured eyes.

"Yes. I am not sure why that happens, actually. It is not as if I consciously decide to use extravagant, florid, purple prose as a tool of communication when I become annoyed. It just comes out that way," I respond offhandedly, but although I was meaning to still sound slightly irate, the green man's amusing comment did apparently manage to change my mood for the better; and seeing as his grin has just turned a little more smug, he must be noticing that as well.

"Well. Breakfast then, birthday boy?" he offers brightly, and in spite of the fact I generally dislike expressions of unnecessary and misplaced joy, the combined facts that I am beginning to genuinely care about him and that merriness makes him appear even more attractive than he generally is, I gladly follow him to the kitchen.

I immediately become a little less glad as a widely grinning, loquacious Juggledore showers me with birthday wishes so silly that I feel compelled to cringe, while offering me at least half a dozen of different sweets simultaneously. I do try not to appear too irritable though, for even this quite unpleasant behaviour from the meddlesome coot's part is a sign of progress compared to his previous mistrust and suspicion; and I can't say that earning a very powerful light wizard's liking is not to my best interests, not can I say that he is not, at times, rather likeable, in own, twisted, exuberant manner.

A few hours go by in a rather pleasing way, with Harry Potter conversing loudly and fondly with the bearded transigurations' prodigy, the former Dark Lord reading quietly his fungus-infested grimoire while occasionally sweeping a few slices of cake, and my glorious self torn between following the interesting albeit inane conversation, or peeping over the German wizard's broad shoulder in an attempt to absorb some obscure knowledge from his ominous tome.

Eventually though, this fallacious sense of perfect normality begins to disturb me, seeing as there is nothing particularly natural about any of us, let alone the four of us as a group, and so, running my long, pale fingers through my hair, I recklessly decide to break this annoying façade.

"Professor Dumbledore, was forgiving Lord Grindelwald easy for you? I find it _surprising_ that no discordance seems to occur between you, since your moral values seem to stand on completely different grounds. One would think you would… find it difficult to reconcile with the fact that Lord Grindelwald has such an appalling amount of blood on his hands, really…" I inquire, purposefully using my most neutral, casual, grey tone, and holding back the curves of an amused smirk from appearing on my delicate, still face.

Subsequently, I watch as the green man turns his head towards me abruptly, an expression of shock and disapproval appearing on his visage; and I watch as Dumbledore drops a small, overly decorated teaspoon producing a small, clinging noise, and as his foreign guest lifts his eyes from the book, their colour darkening a little with both interest and the sense of challenge.

For a small fraction of time, perhaps even less than a mere nanosecond, I experience a pang of guilt for having so skilfully disturbed a previously peaceful and homely moment; yet the satisfaction acquired from observing the growing, chaotic effects of such a concise and simple comment is far greater, and I am unable to regret my rather rash action.

Silence hovers rather uncomfortably above the large, wooden table before Albus Pebblepore, a weary sigh escaping between his pressed lips and his glasses sliding down his thin but elongated nose, decides to formulate an adequate reply. Surprisingly, he no longer appears to be in any way angry or irate, despite his initial surprise at my strategically tactless and bold suggestion; instead, the middle-aged wizard's washed-out blue eyes seem oddly tender and poignant, causing me to feel mildly uneasy.

"Dear boy… I am an aging man, and I have decided to longer deny myself happiness. It is as simple as that. And yet, I find your question very intriguing. I am certain you were just trying to spice up the atmosphere, to make things a little more interesting. I doubt there was a long thinking process behind your inquiry. So isn't it interesting that the first crucial question that came to your mind was one about the possibility of love between people who stand on entirely different moral grounds? Does that not show the sort of matters that are troubling your subconscious?" the auburn-haired coot states with a voice sickeningly gentle and soft, a kind, concerned but also dominating expression taking form on his somewhat wrinkled face.

_Touché._

And then silence.

My body slowly goes numb, as his sharp but gentle, kind-hearted but deadly comment sinks in, and I find myself enraged but trapped, unable to respond to an analysis that even to me seems terribly plausible; and suddenly I feel ridiculous and exposed, unmasked. But I am Tom Riddle, the young genius, the eloquent, sly Slytherin, and thus do not allow myself to be defeated like that, do not allow anyone to dare try to unravel my soul; and so without daring to turn around and see what sort of expression Harry Potter might be sporting, I get up elegantly and calmly and throw my icy, empty eyes on the smiling professor.

"Professor Dumbledore, I find yours to be a most interesting theory. Perhaps you have been reading some Freud lately? No matter, I do find it somewhat risqué to assume things on the feelings of people about which you know less than you believe yourself to," I phrase with a serene, clear and graceful voice, my hands both spread on the large table and I stand on the opposite side of the now pensive transfigurations' master, who nonetheless appears to still by smiling a little. The sensation of a cold, cruel fire spreading inside my chest, an unknown, dark passion, reinvigorates and awakens me, and I feel the shadowy, sharp aura of my magic flare up around me in a silent, gradual manner.

_Do not presume to know me, fool._

The phoenix-owner's facial features show him to be a little taken aback, and perhaps concerned by the rather menacing reaction of my magical signature; his blond companion on the other hand is smirking most softly behind his ominous grimoire, his stormy eyes sparkling with morbid interest.

It is then that a strong arm slides around my lithe body and pulls me in with a gentle sort of violence, and I feel Potter's broad and powerful body standing behind mine, his head leaning down on my shoulder as he releases a warm, amicable whisper into my ear.

"There's no need for hostility, Tom. Albus was merely defending himself against your rather crude verbal harassment. Let us enjoy your birthday, no?" his low, virile voice states in a way both commanding and soothing; and so my magic reacts to the green man's words, retreating and smoothing out as we both sit back down. His toned arm lingers around my body though, agitating me and calming me at the same time, causing the meddlesome professor's words to echo once more within my troubled mind.

_The possibility of love between people who stand on entirely different moral grounds…_

What a ridiculous suggestion, I conclude to myself furiously; how could this concept be roaming around the dark lanes of my subconscious when I do not even understand what love is, or why people deem this silly, foolish, abstract value to be so pivotal, so crucial for their petty lives. These matters are of no interest to me, I order myself sternly, for the emotions I hold for the time-traveller are neither abstract not foolish; they are simply the natural manifestation of an intellectual and physical attraction, something controllable and comprehendible.

* * *

"Vould anyone like to play some vizarding chess vith me?" Gellert Grindelwald suddenly asks, his tone light and careless, breaking the somewhat heavy, thick silence with his mischievous, nonchalant personality and conjuring a large magical chessboard. Wordlessly and with a small movement of the eyes, I volunteer myself to serve as his adversary, and I glide softly across the room to occupy the chair best suited for the purpose of conducting a chess game against the retired dictator.

The sensation of Potter's arm lingers on as I move around my black queen.

Somehow it reminds me of the sensation of a harness, restraining but in an odd manner, also liberating; and I yearn for him to pull me against his powerful being once more, to take my darkness under his gentle control and make me surrender to him.

Nevertheless, I also desire for him to be engulfed inside my sickness, for him to give in to my domineering seduction, to my malevolent wiles, for him to become mine and mine alone; forever bound to me within the constraints of my delicious decadence.

I guess both parts of my frighteningly spit personality desire this young, alluringly powerful wizard in vastly different ways; and I guess the fact my mind is consumed by these conflicting and growing needs is perhaps not to my advantage, since I am meant to be trying to defeat a former Dark Lord in wizarding chess. Unwilling to carry on with this infuriating parody of a game, during which I can barely spare a ridiculously small portion of my mental capacity to planning my moves, I lift my hand slowly and consequently, with a swift movement filled with finality, I flip my king in frustrated resignation and quit my seat.

Gellert Grindelwald's expression remains perfectly stoic, a brilliant blond curl decorating his softly smirking visage as he rapidly expunges the conjured board, and it is only his dark azure eyes that follow me with interest as I walk off towards the time-traveller.

"Would you like to go for a walk with me?" I make my terse demand rather gracelessly, interrupting the gentle conversation between Harry Potter and Goggle-gore in an admittedly gauche manner and causing both wizards to offer me rather curious expressions.

"Of course," the handsome green-eyed man replies after only a mere second of silence, rather impressed by my straightforward, guileless request, and he most generously gives me on of these radiant, cordial smiles before we make our way towards the door.

For a while, we walk in silent, for I am not exactly certain of what my intentions are meant to be, and am unsure of how to handle my overwhelming desires; and he does not talk either, presumable awaiting for me to make my reasons known, to take the lead and confess the rationale behind my sudden request for isolation. Small, light flakes of snow are falling around us, dancing gracefully to the unknown melodies of the cold, winter wind, and from far, far away, the soothing sounds of tintinnabulation reach our ears.

For no particular reason formed by a logical thought process, I suddenly feel compelled to halt, and thus I simply stand there, in the delicate, creeping cold of this dull winter day, my eyes unable to leave the green man's beautiful form. He stops as well, sensing that I am about to disclose something perhaps, and he faces me with an open, ready face while the terpsichorean snowflakes, gossamer and sheer, whirl between our steady gazes; and so I decide to speak without even knowing what I want to say, as if possessed by a power unknown to me.

"Is it not natural for someone to want something for their birthday?" I mutter as I take an audacious step forward, my eyes taking in hungrily the miracle of his face, so primitively masculine but so suave, so bold but so urbane, so hard but so soft; the face of the quintessential, the archetypal warrior.

"It is, I guess. I would have gotten you something, but I already did for Christmas so..." he responds somewhat uncertainly, and somehow he seems malleable at this moment, vulnerable and curious and confused; but behind this softness I can see the tenebrous and enigmatic smile on his face, I can discern that part of him that wants me, that is pulling me in voraciously. My mind becomes a haze of lust and inner conflict, all rational ability obliterated by the sweet ambivalence of Potter's chatoyant, Avada Kedavra eyes, and without firm control over my body, I discover my hand to be hovering between our bodies, as if independent.

_Well, I'll just have to take what I want, then._

And it is then that I grab him most forcefully, pulling him in towards me despite the important difference in our sizes, and I lift up to meet his soft, weathered lips with an impudent boldness I never knew I possessed, with a stern demandingness that I have long been trying to suppress.

A kiss occurs.

For a split second, he seems irresolute, indecisive; he passively allows his kiss to be so audaciously stolen by me amidst the falling snow, and, with my heart thumping violently inside my chest, I wait for him to find the strength to push me back and reject me. For I already know he will.

Only he doesn't.

Instead, I feel both his strong, toned arms reach out for me and grab my shirt in a manner shockingly brutal, pulling me in with surprising force, with ravenous hunger and consuming me whole, devouring me, with his lips pushing against me almost cruelly, and his whole body tensing in a manner almost warlike. His completely unexpected reaction, the intoxicating beauty of his crackling magic, the commanding sensation of his physical strength all find me unprepared, and I feel myself shivering against his furious assault, unready to welcome the full effects of a grown man's desire.

_This is... unexpected._

Why is he not pushing me away? Would that not be the moral thing to do? Is it perhaps that I subconsciously found the courage to impose myself upon him so arrogantly only beause I thought that he would certainly not react to it, that he would simply disengage and leave; had I taken for granted that there could be no consequence to my action? Foolish of me, I think to myself as his broad, intimidating body easily overrides mine in our struggle for leadership.

And yet, it is the most extraordinary, most phenomenal thing; the most gratifying, most divine and scrumptious and luscious and exquisite moment of my penumbral, dull life. It is the delicious tactility of his warm mouth, the arousing hardness of his aggressive body, the deep, musky odour of his harsh skin, it is the contact of our eagerly merging magic and the eroticism of what is simultaneously so wrong, and so irrevocably right.

It is a frail and transient sensation, so powerful and overwhelming but so ephemeral, as I taste what I feel to be completion.

Eventually, the kiss breaks, lost between breathless sighs.

"It was against my better judgment," I apologise between heavy but discreet pants, still putting an unearthly amount of effort into restraining my rampaging desire, into not forcing yet another kiss between us when my body is so loudly pleading for one. But I am rather good at controlling my physical actions, so I can soon once more become composed, constrained, collected; and apparently so is he, for quickly enough the heaviness of his breathing subsides, and he simply stares at me, his eyes brilliant and dangerous, his face dark and unreadable.

* * *

Potter's PoV

The perfect, smooth, velvet texture of his hair is slightly dishevelled by both the violence of our kiss and the wetness of the falling snow. His smooth, marble cheeks are flushed, and his lips wantonly parted. His eyes, often so eerily empty and undecipherable, are now full of fervent, unhidden desire. His body is trembling a little, and his nostrils occasionally flare. He looks a little shocked, a little shaken, a little lustful, a little desperate and terribly, terribly aroused. What a sight.

He is the sort of spectacle that can awaken something very brutal, very primitive inside a man, and I can barely hold myself back from pinning him against a random tree and aggressing him. Every bit of him seems to be sternly demanding it. His lovely cheekbones and his delicate but forceful hands, his lips, his long, dark lashes.

"It was against my better judgment," he murmurs, but it does not sound like an apology at all. It sounds like a commanding request. Like an order for more.

Jesus Merlin fuck. I am only human.

How am I meant to disobey, especially when I already gave into him so easily, so weakly? The refined, wicked taste of his lips is still lingering on mine, like a malicious little voice pushing me to get more. His beauty is unnerving.

I hate myself for having kissed him back, of course, and for having let my lust turn loose. I expected better from myself. But even I cannot deny how much pleasure it brought me, finally smothering his overweening, arrogant, perfect little face with unadulterated desire, and tasting his own, shady lust.

Somehow, a strange, vengeful rage is building up somewhere inside me, in a dark, forgotten place. A desire to forever wipe away the usual haughty, blasé look on his face, and show him that a man's lust is not something to be toyed with. A desire frighteningly malignant, frighteningly violent and domineering, that I can barely hold back. The kind of sensation I had not felt since back then, during the war. I care for him, but I also despise him, and resent him, and I want to tear him apart, and...

I feel terribly dishonourable for these thoughts of mine.

And equally terrified of them, and compelled to reveal them to that beautiful boy, who is so stupidly walking into the unknown.

"Tom… Since I am such an honest person, I'd like to let you know that there is a part of me that wants to... wreck you right now. To erase your… irritating conceit and your nonchalant attitude, and show you that you shouldn't play so thoughtlessly with fire. I'm not a toy for you to test the extent of your charms onto. I am _not_ a man as perfectly benevolent as you'd like to think, and if you tempt me too much, I _will _give you what you want. Please, please, be careful," I phrase slowly and with intensity, my eyes never leaving his. And although I tried to formulate a warning, I tried to scare him off, to push him and intimidate him, it comes out differently.

It comes out like a invitation, and I realise, with great alarm, that it is received that way, too. At first he seems to be simply deliberating, as if considering the pros and cons of provoking me, pushing me to the edges. And despite his partial uncertainty, perhaps caused by the rather disconcerting darkness in my words, he _smiles_.

"That's fine with me," the boy then says, a mask of confidence concealing his possible nervousness, or awkwardness, or uncertainty. "If that's the dance, let's dance it."

Gathering his strength, he steps forward again and kisses me.

Again, and in a manner most assertive, if not downright coercive.

Oh, Merlin.


	37. Chapter 37

Disclaimer: There is a strong case for opposing intellectual property. Among other things, it often retards innovation and exploits Third World peoples. Most of the usual arguments for intellectual property do not hold up under scrutiny. In particular, the metaphor of the marketplace of ideas provides no justification for ownership of ideas. The alternative to intellectual property is that intellectual products not be owned, as in the case of everyday language. Strategies against intellectual property include civil disobedience, promotion of non-owned information, and fostering of a more cooperative society.

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger. I would not have used one had I not decided on writing the next chapter as I can; toobad real life got in the way. I am not that horrible a person. Also, if you listen to "Rome - We who fell in love with the sea" while reading this chapter, you'll get an emotional bonus.

To Ninianna: Indeed, that line was the one I enjoyed coming up with the most. The subtle meta-lampshade-hanging quality of it, yum yum. Thanks for the rest of lovely comments anyhow, I am doing my very best in creating a Potter and a Riddle that are as close to canon and they are to my personal idea of them.

To NougatEvolution: Thanks for reading the femmeslash one, too. Anyway, your TMI was welcome, because I am always slightly afraid of shocking the American portion of my readers, since my morals are more on the libertarian, European side. As for the paternal relationship, Potter might have given into Tom's aggression at this point, but that does not mean that things will follow strictly that path from now on.

To Tonia: Actually, καθορώ is indeed the classical Ancient Greek word from κατά + ορώ, so your Greek must be rather good. The word I am talking about though is a late Ancient Greek word. You won't find it in Plato or Aristotle. If you need an example, just google "καταβλέπω Plutarchus Moralia" and google books will find the corresponding page for you.

* * *

Chapter 36

Potter's PoV

"That's fine with me," he says, a statement simple, sealing clearly his intentions towards me. For a second he seems a little insecure about proceeding, but he reaches out and grabs me again anyway.

Again, and in a manner most assertive, if not downright coercive.

This time though, I am prepared for it. And although I do let his lips meet mine, out of weakness perhaps or out of selfishness, I quickly push the young wizard away. Neither with as much violence as I had previously drawn him in, nor with as much brutality as I'd just responded to his previous kiss, though. I push him away gently, softly. Like one would scold a small, fragile animal.

"Enough, Tom," I whisper a little hoarsely, and I know that my words are directed to myself as well. It's not easy for me to turn him down, really, because he is just criminally attractive, and so my voice comes out rather powerless; a little broken perhaps, and very thick. But it is commanding nonetheless, and it pushes Tom back more effectively than my hands do. And then the boy, so unacceptably gorgeous, just stares at me.

His blue eyes hold a strange, cool fire, but his statuesque face remains emotionless. I feel like I want to shake him.

"That's_ enough_," I repeat myself softly, somehow feeling the need to underline my previous statement. And suddenly I feel terribly worn out, exhausted from the long years of bloodshed, from the losses and the pain. I am too old for this, I think to myself, despite my twenty five years of age. I am past the stage of developing crushes, of touching myself in the shower or writing little notes; I am in the business of holding the world's weight on my shoulder now. I have energy for little more than this excruciating duty.

"Why would it be enough, when it is so perfectly clear to both of us that this… attraction is both strong and mutual? If you truly were so strongly opposed to the idea of engaging in sexual activities with such a young individual, you would be genuinely unable to become aroused by this. And yet aroused you are, and I can tell. So please, stop using your morality as an excuse to avoid losing control over the nature of our rather unhealthy relationship, Potter," he hisses in a rather accusatory tone, angry even, and moves forward again, placing his body mere inches away from mine.

"I…" I try to begin. And then I realise I am not sure what my reply to his little bout of ire should be. He does have several good points, after all. I let myself deliberate on it for a moment, as the snowflakes keep falling between us like little dancers.

"I no longer protest to it on moral grounds, alright? It would be hypocritical, I know it would. I am simply not confident I can handle all the possible pain and the bitterness and the complications that will eventually arise from this. At least, not yet. Just let me rest a little, won't you? Don't make this more difficult for me than it already is," I mumble somewhat defensively. My words cause a shift in the texture of his eyes. The coldness subsides, and he offers me a look almost tender; a strange sort of mercy.

When he wears such warm expressions, he looks almost like an angel. That's just how utterly perfect he is, at times, and I hate myself for thinking so.

I lift my hand towards him, and I caress his smooth cheek. As he tilts his head ever so slightly in the direction of my hand, I smile. He is certainly not Voldemort yet; there is still some sweetness in him, and perhaps some understanding.

"I understand," he eventually utters, a little disappointedly, but without grudge.

"You do?" I question him, genuinely surprised at this odd expression of empathy from his part. He is not one to generally talk this way. He has a history of putting his own desires above all other things, actually.

"Why would I not? It makes perfect sense, after all, that you would not want to involve yourself in such complex, twisted and dangerous matters before you feel the purpose of your mission has been safely fulfilled. Your desire to prevent me from becoming Voldemort is stronger than your desire for me per se, and you would not want to act upon the latter without ensuring the first one first, since you believe yourself not currently strong enough to balance both at the same time, right?" he deduces, his tone light and factual.

"That would be… an accurate description of my reasoning. Just add the factor of my feeling rather drained by my recent experiences, and of my fearing that this kind of thing might awaken the worst in both of us at a moment when we are both unable to handle it," I tell him. My hand is still somewhere around his cheek, and suddenly he grabs it and bites it, lightly but not without pressure.

"What you call the… _worst_ in both of us will eventually come to the surface though, as I am sure you know, Harry. And I honestly do wonder if we will be readier then than we are now," he mutters darkly as he lets my hand go, and once again his eyes are strangely lit.

"We will be," I state with as much confidence as I can manage. He does not look entirely convinced, but he shifts and nods his head in acceptance of my words anyway.

"Alright. I'll attempt to hold back then, for the sake of our souls or whatnot, if I manage. But I honestly would not trust someone like myself to be able to suppress desire for too long a time, really; I'm not really the self-sacrificial kind, as you might know. I get what I want. Let's hope I'll manage to give us enough time for you to deem us prepared. But before we return to the cottage and hide our inner conflicts behind cheeriness or apathy, I need you to kiss me," he whispers seductively but also matter-of-factly, with a strange and sickly saccharine quality to his voice.

Under his greedy gaze, my chest tightens and I bite back a low groan, for he is seriously very apt at pushing my buttons.

"I kissed you already. I did not push you back, Riddle. Was that not what you wanted?" I say, trying to avoid any further entanglement. And yet I know what he is going to say; I know what he wants.

"No. You did not exactly kiss me, assistant professor; you kissed me _back_ within the boundaries of an action that I both triggered and induced. I want _you_ to do this from the beginning, willingly, and fully under your own control. I am willing to comply to your demand for temporary constraint, but I do want this in exchange. Quid pro quo," The young Slytherin explains, and of course it is just as I had expected. He wants to feel, to know that I desire him outside of his own created circumstances; perhaps he is tired of being in control of situations, of manipulating.

* * *

And so I reach out for him obediently and crash onto his lips, enveloping him with both arms and pulling his body onto mine. The sensation of the friction between us is exquisite, and his maliciously strategic submissiveness is strangely arousing. He gives himself passively, and yet in his passivity there is demandingness and desire.

The blood running in my veins turns hot at his endless eagerness.

And it is exactly this attitude of his that is threatening to bring out the worst in me, for I discover myself to be grabbing his hair and pushing his delicate head backwards as I run my mouth along his jawline. What a demon. He knows just what he needs to do in order to unleash me from my composed, controlled state.

He pushes his lithe physique onto me in a way almost needy. His long fingers grab my collar and pull me towards him, and he throws his head back even more. My own head unwillingly moves towards his neck, gliding lower across the velvety skin. Although his colours and thin, angular shapes make his beauty a rather cold one, his body is radiating raw heat. It is almost screaming for me to unleash it from its restraints, right here, in the middle of the snow. And there's nothing I'd love to do more than that.

But no. Just no. I won't let him have it his way, I think to myself, and I let him go, stepping backwards. I must pull myself together. I can't let him manipulate me into assaulting him, as he seems to desire.

"Will that do?" I inquire neutrally, catching my breath and thanking myself for displaying such astonishing willpower. I am a good man after all.

"Yes, that was exactly what I had in mind," he hisses with a small smirk toying on his lips, his hair messy and his eyes ominously bright. He looks like an incubus that has just been fed, and it is both appealing and slightly frightening.

For Merlin's sake, he is just four-fucking-teen.

By the time we return to Albus' cottage, there is no sign on us of anything having occurred. Other than some meaningful conversation, maybe. Tom's hair is once again neatly parted to the side, and his skin is as pallid as ever. He breathes in the most homogeneous, calm manner possible, and his moves are controlled and elegant. As for me, I try to be my usual, rather messy self. I grin happily at the older wizards that are languorously chatting in the living room, and pick up a cookie.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

How curious that he, who is in many ways appears to represent the archetypal Gryffindor, would be such a talented actor, so smoothly making his way into Apple-core's conversation, his face bright and kind and caring; and I cannot help but admire how someone as deeply honest as he is can make his expression lie when needed. I repress a smile of knowing endearment as I watch him pick up a ridiculously overdecorated piece of biscuit, using his best kind-hearted and slightly goofy grin, and so easily earn the tenderness of both elder wizards; all as if nothing were.

And there I thought _I_ was the hypocrite in this situation. Dear me what a miscalculation it would have been had I underestimated his cunning, and mistaken him for a foe I could take down easily by plotting and acting alone; and thank Morgana he is not actually a true foe of mine, at least not fully.

As for me, I decide not to bother exchanging interesting pleasantries accompanied with tea and cookies; greeting the auburn-haired professor politely and nodding to his German companion, I excuse myself with grace, and notify them of my desire to retire to a rather more private surrounding.

As I make my way smoothly and silently to my shared guest quarters, I experience the slightly overwhelming sensation of my heartbeat throbbing right where his insatiable lips had previously lingered; my mouth, cheek, jaw and neckline are all unusually warm, and I compulsively slide my elongated fingers down the scandalous path his tongue had followed.

Oh, I had been rather certain it would be most deliciously fulfilling to experience him expressing his desire so powerfully; and yet even I hadn't expected what an earthshaking, momentous, epochal feeling it had been, drawing out his most exquisite, domineering part, that must have long been dormant behind his excellent mental defence and his hardened, weathered personality. The Harry Potter I saw today was the most alluring, most sensual and powerful individual I have ever had the good grace to meet; for these few seconds I saw him for the masterful, glorious wizard he truly is, and I have no further doubt about my emotions.

I want this man to be _mine,_ and whatever personal sacrifices, difficult choices or Machiavellian demagoguery it might require, when the right time comes he _will_ be mine.

Refreshed and reinvigorated by the purifying sensations of unrestrained lust and avarice, I smile to myself triumphantly and ruffle my own hair a little; and I am so deeply satisfied that I do not even have the time to mock myself for being such a pathetic hedonist. The existential ennui clearly chased away by my delightful entanglement with the green man, my world-weariness slowly vanishes into a sea of revitalised creativity; perhaps a peculiar sort of afterglow.

Nevertheless, and despite the immense pleasure I am certain it brought to both of us, I comprehend the reasons why such an occurrence cannot be repeated in the immediate future; the time-traveler believes that my soul is at stake, and even though I do feel ready to be given what I desire, I would not want to trick him into acting against what he believes to be right. Additionally, I understand his concern about this sort of debauchery pulling out to the surface the most dangerous parts of us, quietly hosted underneath our everyday personas, and I do realise that even though this dark, ravenous, tempestuous Harry I met I found immensely attractive, he might be equally deranged.

After all, I am familiar with the mechanics of coexisting with the dark, ill and damaged parts of one's minds, and I do know that it is best not to lure them out thoughtlessly; and deep down, I am not entirely sure I am ready to come face to face with the Voldemort in me, either.

According to the notable Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy, "the two most powerful warriors are patience and time", and thus, despite my thirsty, feverish predisposition I shall, for the time being, follow the great Russian visionary's advice and endure.

"You sssmell like hormonesss, Tom, dearessst," a mellifluous serpentine voice hisses from somewhere within the tangled bed-sheets, and soon after Nagini's aristocratic, calligraphic head slithers out between the heavy folds, her amber, chatoyant eyes glistening with intense interest. With a tasteful movement I bring my arm forth for her to climb, and indeed she wraps her majestic, emerald body around my long limb, eyeing me with unhidden curiosity as she makes her way up to my shoulders.

"I have been engaging in activitiesss with rather intensse sssexual undertones," I explain succinctly to my pulchritudinous familiar, caressing her smooth head with soft, gentle moves; I would have liked to perhaps offer her more details, but it appears I am still not well able to express the enticing images forever carved in my mind with words, despite my usual eloquence.

"Ah, I sssee. The time-traveller, yess? He will make a fine mate for you, I think. But you shouldn't be hasssty, better sssafe than sssory, yess?" she observes rather casually, her little forked tongue flicking in and out of her dangerous but beauteous jaws, and she rubs herself lazily onto my slender neck, in an endearingly amicable manner.

"Don't go imagining quixotic, halcyon momentsss of languid abandon, sssnakeling. It wasss merely a few intensse but otherwise innocuous kisses," I swiftly underline, causing her luminous eyes to narrow somewhat, in a clear manifestation of incredulity and unbelief. "Although I am not exactly ssertain of what the lassst part of your sstatement wass ssupossed to hint at, beloved ssserpent," I consequently add, hoping for her to elaborate a little more on the possible disaster my hastiness could bring about, as to enlighten me about the further reasons why I should practice patience and thus help me convince myself to do so.

"Jusst ssaying…" she hisses at me sweetly and cryptically, with her hypnotising eyes oddly knowing, unwilling to indulge my curiosity as she rubs her head against my lower jaw affectionately, before contracting her body and jumping off my shoulder. I decide not to push it any further, since I am not too sure how threatening and intimidating I could possibly manage to be in the face of a lethal magical snake, and doubt my ability to worm information out of said snake in any other way.

* * *

My complex thoughts on the possible methods one could use in order to outwit an animal known to symbolise the very essence of cunning are interrupted by Jungle-lore's cheerful voice, calling me to join them for lunch in a cringe-inducingly mother-like manner. Knowing full well that it is rather unwise to defy the old meddling fool's wishes, the memory of a certain flower bed incident still fresh within my traumatised mind, I grumpily but, as always, elegantly oblige, and make my quiet appearance at the living room before greeingt the older wizards in a neutral but polite way.

Gellert Grindelwald has an oddly meaningful smirk plastered on his devious but strangely handsome face as he sips his scented tea in a soft, serene manner, I notice warily, and I briefly wonder whether he somehow managed to deduce the nature of my private talk with Potter; yet I conclude that to be very unlikely, even though he is, after all, and despite the fact it has not actually quite sunk in, the great and terribly Lord Grindelwald. After all, we both did a frighteningly adequate job at masking any trace of whatever happened between us. Nonetheless, I am relieved to realise the German wizard's expression is directed towards his slightly insane but overly wise partner, who is currently placing placing hands on the kitsch table and putting on a majestic expression, as if ready to make some kind of grand announcement; and indeed, he proceeds in making one.

"I have long thought about the nature of your time-traveling young Harry, and I have come to suspect a few things. I have actually come to believe that your vision of me was in no way a coincidence, and that perhaps I, or maybe my future self, am actually partly responsible for creating this time-space ripple. And yet, I am hoping that had I done something so reckless, I would have left a message for myself about it. Would you mind showing me again the memory of that curious vision you had, please?" he states in a grave and thoughtful manner, and I suddenly do not find him that comical anymore; it is one of these rare times when the auburn-haired professor looks every bit the impressive and frighteningly powerful wizard he truly is, and when I realise that I am in the company of really exceptional individuals, that can meddle with time, space, life, death.

Harry Potter looks a little confused for a second, but then his light and friendly expression also moulds into one of pensiveness and gravity, while the interest and intensity flaring up within his lethally green eyes make him look terribly attractive and imposing; he approaches his future mentor, and even though nothing is visible to the eye, I can almost feel the information flowing between their minds through their stable and unwavering eye-contact.

Legillimency comes natural to them, I observe.

During that moment, I feel almost intimidated by the knowledge that these people surrounding me, the two eccentric and peculiar old geezers and that slightly goofy time-traveler, are amongst the chief forces moulding the fate of wizardkind and manipulating the flow of history; subsequently, I feel somewhat envious of their said status, and I simply cannot wait to reach and then triumphantly surpass their power.

Furthermore, a small part of my traitorous mind cannot help but admire Harry Potter's sculpted face, and the lovely, hard, masculine features, so criminally flattered by his deadly serious expression; another thing I simply cannot wait for is grabbing this enigma of a man and unleashing upon him weeks of sexual tension and suppressed, twisted desires, although I very well know that I will be unable to do so in the immediate future, seeing as I am merely a_ boy_.

For the first time in my life, I feel thus left behind both in terms of magical and sexual maturity, and despite my general self-esteem and the full knowledge of my own power, intellect and physical appeal, a wave of unfathomable disappointment at being just fourteen rises inside my chest; it is cruel to be a child when on has never had the chance to truly be one.


	38. Chapter 38

Disclaimer: I am not making money out of this. I do earn the occasional cookie treat to reward me for my fanserving achievements, though. Woof. Does that count as cheating?

A/N: Plot! Plot everywhere!

Or alternatively: Suddenly plots! Thousands of them!

To NougatEvolution: Although Tom does not want to follow the bleak path Potter has described to him, since it involves death, insanity and other generally unpleasant situations, he is still a fairly ambitious individual. Furthermore, he is surrounded by wizards of great power, and it is only natural that he would feel the desire to reach (and surpass) them. Not becoming a Dark Lord does not mean rejecting the attraction of power altogether, and the line is thin there. So yes, well spotted!

To Ambre: I am glad I have converted you into slash, but you do have a very valid point when you claim that you feel this story is not about the male/male interaction itself. Indeed, it isn't. I am not writing slash for the sake of slash; I simply find these two characters extremely interesting. Had Tom Riddle been female in Rowlings' books, my story would have been het. I don't actually have any particular preference between these two types of relationship, to be honest: character development is my purpose here.

To Renart: Yes, this is indeed an AU element. I have said this before I think, but thank you for reminding me, so I can make this clear and help readers be rid of any possible confusion! This story is AU in three different ways. First off, Tom Riddle left the orphanage at the age of 6/7 and was adopted. Secondly, Potter did not defeat the Dark Lord in his Seventh Year (although he did come pretty close to that; the King's Cross scene did occur). The war lasted quite a while longer, and did not end with Voldemort's eventual death, either. Furthermore, the whole epilogue of book 7 is ignored. Everything else is as canon as I can manage, and hopefully in character, too.

To T-TrainorTurkeyT: I am GrecoLuxembourgish, and thus Greek and to some extent French are my mother tongues. Luxembourgish is also a language I am very comfortable with (although I absolutely loathe it), and English is something I picked up at school and later uni. But since English is today's auxlang and also the language of teh interwebs, I am trying my best to hone my English skills.

Warnings: Plot, homosexual attraction, and other such nuisances.

* * *

Chapter 38

Harry's PoV

And so I feel the familiar mind of Albus entering mine with careful, gentle movements, and I do my best to help him get in. The sensation of him digging around my poor little brain is a little odd, and so I push that particular vision towards him, the one he must be looking for, as to help him. The dream I had of him before my time-travelling adventure began. He views it a few times, or, more accurately, we both do, although I can't seem to understand what he seems to be finding so thought-provoking about it, and then he dives back into the dark, tangled mess of my memories, in search of something else. I am not too sure what the loveable, meddlesome man is looking for, but I let him mess around anyway, until he finally finds what he is looking for.

That vision of a King Cross' platform I had had during my duel with Voldemort in my Seveth Year, I notice; the time when I lost the Horcrux I'd been hosting for so long. It makes sense he'd want to see this, it occurs to me, since it –was- him I supposedly met there after all. Could the two incidents be related, I wonder? They should be; it would be too big a coincidence for my subconscious to somehow dig up Albus every time something monumental happens to me. The middle-aged wizard watches that whole dialogue a few times, too, and his mind feels thoughtful and grave.

Then, with a motion that could have been a little softer, he pulls out. His pale blue eyes, usually so kind and light-hearted, seem lost in speculation.

Silence reigns within the living room for a while, with both Gellert and Riddle staring at the graying redhead expectantly as he seemingly digests and analyses the information recently acquired from inside my mind. Eventually the future headmaster looks up, and despite still looking somewhat pensive and scratching his chin intently, light slowly creeps back into his eyes.

"I have a theory!" he then states rather loudly, in his usual oddly cheerful manner, while pointing the ceiling with his index is if his theory could be found hanging from there. After making that important statement he shuts his mouth for a minute or so, obviously frustrating the two morally challenged wizards in the room, who are both too proud to simply ask him to promptly proceed. Fortunately, he does eventually open it again, triggering a string of rather surprising deductions.

"When the piece of Voldemort's soul you'd been containing was hit by the killing curse, both you and Voldemort lost your senses and collapsed, isn't that right? Since that particular Horcrux was not killed in one of the manners appropriate for Horcrux eradication, it did not actually cross over, if you remember. Isn't that so, young Harry?" he asks at first, eyeing me with a slightly conspirational smile. I nod.

"Yes. You did explain that to me, at the time. Something about that particular fragment of soul being trapped 'in limbo', if I can recall," I mutter a little confusedly, unsure of where this is going, and why both Gellert and Tom seem so unnaturally fascinated by this conversation.

"So since you were at that point in the same plane of existence as that piece of soul, you were 'in limbo', too. That would be a logical deduction. And the one you found there, in the crossroad between life and death, was me. Curious, is it not?" he continues, and suddenly a suspicion starts growing in me, slowly but steadily.

"And then once again, when you, instead of travelling back in time in the usual manner, were removed from the timeline entirely only to be reinserted, it was me my older self you met during your moments of partial non-existence… It does seem as if I am frequenting that particular area between life and death quite a lot," he adds, and suddenly his eyes widen, and his lips part in recognition. "Could you let me in again? I need to verify something!" he requests urgently, his voice trembling in rather chilling way, a cross between shock, concern and excitement.

Before I even have the time to formulate a reply, I feel his mind plunging into mine with surprising desperation. He frantically swims around a bit, especially within the memories related to his death, and then he removes himself from my mind almost too gently.

"When did I die, Harry?" he asks, very softly. So softly that I think I am becoming a little concerned, and I just eye him worriedly for a second, before giving my answer.

"Severus Snape killed you. I am sure you have seen that memory before… It was part of your greater scheme and…" I begin a little hesitantly, feeling that it must be a trick question; and indeed it must be, because the auburn-haired man's lips break into a slightly frightening smile.

"You know, in many ancient works of spellcraft and wizardry, the time of death is taken to be the time when ones death becomes sealed. Not the exact moment of his physical death per se. A peculiar belief, isn't it?" he murmurs, and he scratches his chin again. And then I know just what he is talking about, and I almost hit my own forehead for not having thought of it before.

"The ring. The curse, right? The moment you put that ring on, the one with the Hallow on it, your death was sealed," I breathe at him hurriedly, feeling my own eyes widen in realisation.

"That's quite correct. When one becomes master of all three Deathly Hallows, they presumably master Death itself. When one dies though, he can no longer acquire mastery over any physical item. So what would happen if someone died the exact same moment when they completed mastery over the Hallows?" he asks rhetorically, and beside me I can hear Riddle's sharp intake of air, and Gellert's curious hum.

Tom Riddle's eyes are glistening in a unnervingly greedy manner, I notice as I turn my gaze towards the young student. There is a dangerous gleam of fascination in them, an impatience to earn more that feels a little unhealthy. He is, as usual, divinely beautiful, and yet, for a fraction of a second, I get the impression that I see a little fragment of Voldemort laughing at me from behind his magnetising eyes. It is not the moment to concern myself with that though, for Albus' question is still hanging emptily in the middle of the room, and because there is something a little off with his theory, which is...

"But, the cloak… You didn't have the cloak, did you?" I question, not very assuredly, since it feels like I'm still missing some crucial point here. A soon as the question leaves my lips however, I know the answer. "But you did not need to physically possess it in the first place! Just like the Elder Wand. It was under Voldemort's possession, and yet it was mine, because I was the one under whose will it was labouring at the time. So… I did own the Invisibility Cloak, but since at the time I had sworn to obey you and had bound myself under your leadership, your will was dominating mine. And therefore, the Cloak was recognising you as its master, too." I phrase carefully at first, and then more confidently, as I become aware of how truly plausible this is, and of how it makes absolute sense.

* * *

All of a sudden, Grindelwald's refined but unrestrained laughter fills the room.

"So vhat you are meaning to tell us is zat you –accidently- became ze master of Death, just as you vere dying? Seriously, Albus, you must admit zat only you could possibly manage to trigger such an absolutely odd magical situation!" he comments, a fond smirk on his thin lips; nevertheless, he does look genuinely intrigued by this turn of events.

"I see… How truly fascinating and rare… You actually acquired the Deathly Hallows at the exact moment when your existence was moving into this state of 'limbo', and thus, although you did gain their famed powers, you were limited within the boundaries of that particular plane of existence. It is almost poetic," Tom Riddle mumbles, his unearthly face seemingly entranced by this admittedly gobsmacking fact, and a ghostly smirk playing on his lips. Of course he would be absolutely enthralled by a concept so morbidly distinguished, I think to myself affectionately. Subsequently, I scold myself because honestly, I should be concerned with his immediate attraction to anything even remotely mysterious and morose, and not amused by it at all. And in fact, I am feeling increasingly worried.

This looks of greed, this dark, hungry fascination... I've seen it before, I whisper to myself, the memory of Hepzibah Smith appearing inside my mind.

Damn.

"How does that lead to my presence here, though? I mean, there's still a piece of the puzzle missing, isn't there?" I wonder out loud, my eyes suddenly wandering off towards the wall as I attempted to find the answer to my own question. Another part of my mind is also racing though, thinking about Tom; his demons, his darkness.

"I will admit I haven't figured this part out as of yet. But a first guess would be the following: that somehow, during that moment in the graveyard, you entered a state of 'limbo', and that it was therefore within my power to move your soul through time, life and death. And, for reasons unknown to me, I chose to bring you over here. Perhaps I had valid reasons to believe that your presence in 1940 would be for the best not only for you, young Harry, but for all of us. As I said, I am still not entirely certain about my future self's motives. I do sincerely hope he knows what he's doing, though," the middle-aged man states pensively, appearing not to be entirely trusting of his future self's judgement, oddly enough.

"Vell, it's been going pretty smoothly so far, ya? I am sure you knew vhat you vere doing, you old beast!" Grindelwald notes in a light-hearted and optimistic manner, that seems a little out of character, taking into account his usual detached and sarcastic demeanour; then he winks, too. Perhaps he is filling in with the obligatory cheery comment, since Albus, who generally produces those, is in a mood far too troubled to fulfil his duty, I wonder idly; they have a somewhat quaint relationship.

"Perhaps we could discover a way to temporarily send one of us into this plane of existence between life and death, and simply ask your future self about it…" Tom Riddle calmly suggests, abruptly breaking out of his silent sea of thought; and although his suggestion is fairly logical, I become immediately wary of the idea of Riddle toying around with life and death, and I throw a warning glare at him. This is quite a honestly becoming a rather difficult situation, and it seems to be drawing more and more Voldemort out of Riddle. And so I place my eyes steadily onto his perfect visage, in search of the shadows dancing inside his mind.

He seems to be expecting such a reaction however, for I discover his eyes already set right into mine, sharp and intense; he takes in my glare and does not yield. And although his face is as criminally beautiful and expressionless as always, I can sense him strongly demanding fom me to trust him.

I am a bit at a loss, I admit, but somehow I decide not to interfere. There will always be a bit of a monster inside this boy, and he will probably always be a little ambitious. Perhaps it is better to try and trust him for now; who knows, he might try and prove me right, and after all, I care so deeply for him, and for the sake of my own sanity, I _need _to trust him. I turn my eyes towards Albus, and I find him giving the young student a long, hard glare as well, examining the boy's eyes, his thin pursed lips, and then his slightly tightened fists; in the end, he also opts for silence.

"Your suggestion is very interesting, I vill admit. But such matters usually require some very dark magic, ya? The kind that easily ensnares a greedy little boy like you. I don't think our friends here vould appreciate that," Grindelwald observes, his mouth curving into a slightly frightening smirk and his eyes shining with an intimidating, shady gleam. I watch as Tom clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to meet the former Dark Lord's own.

"It was merely a suggestion. I did not intend to cast any such magic myself in any case. After all, I am certain you have a much greater experience in such matters, sir," the young man states, his voice vaguely resembling a hiss by now, and he then turns his face towards me, an unreadable expression turning his statuesque features hard and distant. Once again, I say nothing, and nor does Dumbledore.

On the other hand, oddly enough, my heart is racing. The hard, distant, almost malefically detached perfection of the mask he uses as a face somehow draws out memories of war in my mind. Memories of war, loss, pain, destruction, and of my own detachment, my own fall into darkness. I feel my lower jaw pushing into my face as I try to chase the images away.

"Mmmmm. Is it so? Perhaps ve could give it a try, ya? I'll do some research. But I suggest, young snake, that you hold your horses a bit. I know how boring it is to be so poverfull, and yet unable to act on it. And yet, don't bite more than you can chew, ya?" Grindelwald whispers elegantly, offering the young student a smile so charming that it is almost seductive; and yet his eyes are dark, and full of warning. Tom merely nods, impassively.

In a sense, I am very relieved with Gellert's reaction, despite the fact that he did accept the boy's idea in the end; I hope his stance will help keep Riddle away from the alluring embrace of Necromancy and other such delightful branches of magic. At least for now.

* * *

Tom's PoV

The sun sets, and then a few more rather uneventful but slightly uncomfortable hours pass before the two middle-aged wizards decide to retire to their library, presumably to look into the possible feasibility of my controversial suggestion; and so Potter and I leave the living room as well, walking quietly towards the guest room. Although I obviously would rather be tortured in an excruciatingly slow fashion before I express that, I am slightly hurt by the blatant signs of mistrust I was shown earlier; It not that I do not comprehend the causes of such wariness, it is simply that I was hoping that at least Potter would not fear for my sanity as much by now.

Of course I do not blame him in the slightest; even I still worry about my sanity occasionally, and even I will admit that the inspiration behind my suggestion must have been, at least partially, my subconscious fascination with the magicks of death. Nonetheless, I did quite sincerely carry no ambition to soil my own hands with such matters as of yet; I merely thought my idea made sense. And yet, how attractive it was to listen to the story of the Deathly Hallows' spectacular power, and how seductive did the idea of such power appear to me; I shiver at the knowledge that indeed there is a part of me that desires this still: immortality, power, control, dominion.

Potter is right not to trust me, I deduce bitterly; I would not trust me either, for even as I try my best, a part of my mind is damaged, sick and hollow, and it will always be.

Accidently aquiring the power of the Hallows then, a little voice hisses inside my mind, a cruel, cold, violent little voice; what a waste, it adds meaningfully, what a waste. I bit my own lip down with passion, roaring loudly inside my own head, a scream of inward desperation echoing in an attempt to chase away these cursed thoughts; I do not want that power, I honestly do not desire it. Or at least, I do not want to desire it, I tell myself, begging myself to believe this; and somehow I need Potter to believe it too, and to know that I am not trying to come up with any machinations in order to get my hands onto dark artefacts.

Indeed, I am drowned by this furiously intense need to have Potter know of my not entirely Machiavellian intensions, and that I am doing my best to keep myself from falling into the darkness, so that he may develop a less bleak impression of the sort of processes that unfold within my mind, leading me to, without actually making a conscious decision about it, grab his sleeve almost desperately and have him face me.

He looks marginally startled at my intensely physical reaction, one of his dark eyebrows slightly arched, which is only natural, since I generally know better than to make such a blunt, unbecoming move; I momentarily curse myself for acting in such a childishly impulsive way. The apotheosis of pathetic.

For a fleeting moment I am uncertain of exactly how I should express myself, and also momentarily taken aback by the deathly, haunting greenness of his eyes; even after having faced them time after time, it is simply a sight I cannot get used to. However, his breathtaking gaze lacks its natural openness and warmth, and his strong, imposing features display caution, deliberation, guardedness; it is understandable, I repeat to myself coolly, that he would be a little vigilant when I so carelessly expressed an attraction to some fairly disturbing subjects, and I suppress my disappointment.

"I wanted to let you know that I sincerely had no intention to seek entanglement into matters of soul magic. There is this part of me... it _is _alluring but... I'm trying my best to keep it leased," I whisper a little hoarsely, feeling embarrassed by my desire to offer some kind of silly apology, since I am certainly not the kind of person that apologises, nor do I want to be, despite my desire to become a better man than I did in Potter's future. My eyes, in a rather pitiful effort to impermanently flee from his own steady stare, if only to fleetingly recover, fall onto my hand, and I am a little surprised to find my thin fingers still digging tightly into the fabric of his robes; I remove them at once, as if burned, and I place my gaze back into his, almost defiantly, heat rising on my traitorous cheeks.

For a short while, he appears to be searching for something in my face, and he scrutinises it in a manner so ceremonious and punctilious that I feel my jaw clench defensively and my lips tighten considerably. I do not lower my eyes though, and it seems that he does find what he'd been looking for, for he suddenly smiles at me, his sculpted face blooming into an overwhelming canvas of warmth and acceptance; a truly miraculous transformation, I whisper to myself inwardly, and feel my own bones loosen at the sight of this amicable softness.

"I believe you. Forgive me for being a little mistrustful at times. It's just that… you are important to me, and you can never be careful with important things," he says in a fashion that I find oddly simple, as if it was a truly evident reply, and I truly do admire the ease with which he phrases his affection; a month ago I would have thought him disgusting and foolish, displaying his pitiful emotions in such a way and making himself vulnerable, but now I simply find him charming and brave.

"Potter…" is what I believe myself to be wording. "Harry…" is what comes out of my mouth however, and I am somewhat incredulous as I recognise my voice, for it sounds docile, reverential, almost pleading; and it is nauseating, but it cannot be helped, for I could not possibly find in me the necessary cruelty to smother this nascent adoration.

And then that horrid, savage pang of lust tears into me, and I experience a need to lean my body onto his own wide frame so powerful that it is almost like the effects of a physical law, nameless and brutally irreversible. Nevertheless, I manage to hold back from him (this cursed object of desire, this… damned cynosure of all my deepest, darkest cravings), and in spite of the restraint I impose upon my self being almost unbearably painful, I stay unbending, for once. This time, I note inwardly with a great deal of sinful pleasure, it is he who succumbs to the undeniable attraction, and leans into me, closing the distance between our lips with a confident but gentle movement, his dark eyelashes fluttering against mine.

But that torturous man simply offers me a short, chaste brush between dry lips that provides no condolence at all, no solace and no relief, and then he pulls back with an equally smooth movement, smiling very softly, as if he wasn't suffering like me, and wasn't being torn apart from the relentless desire to clash his body against mine. That damned, cursed hypocrite, I mutter to myself, as a shaky breath slips from between my lips into my quivering lungs.

"We're returning to Hogwarts tomorrow, you know. We'll need all the impassive facades and impeccable self-control we an possibly muster," he drops in conversationally, and I give him a dark glare; he does have a very valid point though, for no matter what, I cannot possibly allow anyone to discover such an exploitable weakness.

"Well, it won't be _pleasant,_ but I think we can both manage. After all, poise and composure come natural to me. As for abstinence and renunciation, they are only difficult when what you are abstaining from was otherwise attainable in the first place," I murmur bitterly and throw my eyes onto the thoroughly uninteresting wall; the atmosphere is completely ruined, I am almost relieved to note.

And then it's on again, for he lifts a strong, lined arm towards me, brushing first his hand and then his forearm onto my cheek, and subsequently running his steady, strong fingers through my hair, only to then trace the outline of my jaw. "Yes, I know. It's me I'm worried about," he mutters a little darkly, and although I suppose he is being humorous, since our relationship thus far has consisted of me trying my utter best to tempt him while he dexterously dismisses my advances, he does sound serious enough.

Which is flattering, really, I think to myself smugly as I tilt my face, so that I may lightly bite that enticing arm of his.

* * *

Albus' PoV

"You know I'm off to the castle tomorrow, right?" I suddenly mention, as I dip a cinnamon biscuit into my cup of delightfully warm Darjeeling. I tentatively bite the softened and moisturised part of the biscuit, and, finding it amply adequate, I hastily proceed to dipping it repeatedly. Gellert snorts a little derisively at my mannerisms, but I am certain it is all because he likes me so.

"It's ze fifth time you mention that, Al. During zis tea, zhat is. You vorry about it too much." he tells me, and I do feel a little embarrassed. Fifth time, huh? I sincerely thought it was the third. Well, not more than the fourth, anyway. I get myself a new biscuit, and stare at it as if it were the most interesting object in the room.

"The fifth time, then. Sorry, I guess I am perhaps a little absent-minded tonight." I mumble and beam a warm smile at him. It has been known to be an efficient disarming tool in the past. He does indeed smile back, but in an entirely different fashion than my own. He uses that technique where his calligraphically shaped lips pull back a little in a most dazzling way, revealing perfect albeit rather pointed teeth while a curl of golden hair falls in a seemingly innocuous way in front of his captivating eyes.

He usually does that when he wants to have sex with me, but I am pretty certain this is not the case. I find that departure from normality to be a little unnerving, quite honestly.

"Vhy are you so concerned about leaving me here, my little phoenix," he purrs at me, his eyes gleaming in a familiar way. Mmmm, yes, much like the predatory look of an Acromantula when it is just about to use its paralysing venom in order to… Well, that's not very encouraging, is it?

"I am leaving a former Dark Lord in a house full of dangerous grimoires and magical artefacts! Common sense requires me to be concerned, Gellert! And do not call me that for Merlin's sake! I am older than you are, and Fawkes finds it disturbing as well, if not offensive to phoenixes," I point out politely, but with a slightly accusatory edge on my voice. He smiles at me again, and then leans in to kiss me, to which I do not really protest.

"Albus… Magic is something I profoundly love, ya? But ze thing vith magic is, it is a logical, canonical entity. Vhen you repeat the same actions in ze same manner, under ze same circumstances, you get ze same result. It is science, and after a few decades of obsessing vith it, it does get a little repetitive, ya? But you Albus, you defy all logic. You are never, ever tiring. Sometimes you are ten years old, and sometimes are ze very essence of visdom, and powver, and balance. I am still a bit of a bastard, I vill admit. But now have become a vise bastard too, and I know how to choose long-term pleasure over short-term excitement," he offers as a reassurance, and I am not certain whether I should be flattered or concerned.

"I still can't believe you –accidently- became master of Death zough! Vhat a joke!" he adds, chuckling as he wraps a slender arm around me.

"Hmmmm, right, yes." I mutter, slightly annoyed, and sip down a large gulp of tea. "Now, I'd like you to behave while I am gone, alright? If you need to use my library in order to look into young Riddle's suggestion, you may do so, but I will be very upset if I discover you to be performing any dark rituals." I state rather seriously, and I throw at him one of these vaguely threatening looks of sternness and austerity.

In return, Gellert offers me one of these rare smiles. Soft, honest and loving, and he kisses he forehead. Suddenly, I am not that concerned anymore, I note to myself a little surprised as I bring my hand up to his irritatingly handsome face. "I've told you, Albus. Ze day I'll have my very own nightstand inside your house, I'll need little else in life, ya…?" he whispers tenderly, and I grab his face, pulling him in for more.

Fawkes croaks in a fairly miserable manner and turns his face to the wall, squirming.


	39. Chapter 39

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Harry Potter silly; slavery has been abolished for a long time over here in Europe. Well… there are those M/s couples that still use collaring and slave contracts but… you know, it's not like the slaves _mind _it and… Oh. I'm digressing.

A/N: IMPORTANT! I've started writing a Kaka/Naru story, using quite a different style compared to this one. Everyone that can bother, please go leave a review because the first dozens are always the hardest ones to get. Kthnxbai! ALSO, let us have some fun. In the end of this chapter I'm revealing the second main point of my plot, anyone who can guess where I cam going with this WINS EVERYTHING FOREVER. I await your theories!

To Voilet: Well, if I do take longer than a month to update, chances are I either died or got hit on the head so hard that I now go by Eugene the handsome sailor.

To Cirrat: I still use the "blah blah's PoV" headers because, although I am sure the vast majority of my readers can tell whose voice I'm using, the ones that just came back from a hard day in college and are drinking their fifth coffee probably can't.

To Gilliane: Ahhhh! Very astute observation. Don't you worry, the plot _will _answer your question soon enough!

To scalvin: Yes, indeed, that is what the nightstand signifies; it is Dumbledore's rather late acceptance of Gellert's old suggestion to move in together. Also, 1000 points for your AWESOME summary of chapter 38.

To Moth Gypsy: Thanks a lot for your very flattering review. I did put a lot of effort to stay away from the "oh darkness oh woe" tone of many stories on this site. Also, if you think this story deserves more reviews, leave a new one for this chapter! Muahahaha, what a cunning plan ;)

* * *

Chapter 39

Tom's PoV

Although I am well-aware that it is past midnight, and I that should probably put some honest effort into drifting towards Morpheus' cool embrace, I can't help laying wide awake, my eyes steadily and stubbornly pinned on the sleeping figure of the green man. And there is this small, devilish voice inside my labyrinthine, multifarious mind, observing slyly how this could be the last chance for intimacy we'll ever have; which is quite a silly, preposterous suggestion, but it is still forming an obsessive, irrational fear within me.

_What if he is somehow called back into his original time-space coordinates before a new opportunity for me to physically __express my nascent desires arises_, the despicable little voice hisses.

_What if the distance we'll have to put between us during our time in Hogwarts extinguishes our feelings towards one another, and __this warm, exceptional emotion slips from between my fingers and is lost forever, throwing me back into my prison of hatred and misanthropy_, it proposes malevolently. _Would that not be such a sad, sad waste?_

_What if the monster residing within my soul __somehow manages to grow within me, __slowly morphing me into the irredeemable, hollow tyrant that I could very possible be, before Potter can pull me back from these torturous shadows_, it whispers suggestively.

I am frightened, I realise hesitantly; a feeling that I rarely ever experience, and one that I find utterly pathetic, nauseating, gut-clenchingly pitiful. And yet here I am, irrationally, illogically, unreasonably scared, and getting more so by the moment, suffocating underneath my bedsheets. Who would have thought that the so thoroughly _human _fear of loss would ever manage to pollute my distant, ruined heart, I think to myself bitterly, and somewhere inside my mind a hollow laughter of self-pity echoes, miserably.

I eventually manage to, using brute mental force, tame my laughable thoughts however, imposing upon myself the composure and the control that I have always been so proud of, and commanding myself to turn my face to the wall, grit my teeth and sleep.

I sleep.

_**I am standing in the middle of an endless field of a rather withered, lifeless, cadaverous shade of green, with a muddy, ominous sky hanging low above my head, and I am waiting, wand in hand. **__**Ensuingly, I notice the figure of a man approaching from the somewhat lighter side of the horizon, his outline familiar against the pallid, opaque grey of the murky sky.**_

_**I do not need him to come any closer, and I do not require light to fall onto his frame for me to immediately recognise him, for the resolute, persevering power of his broad body, the unfaltering rhythm of his steps, the firm, settled steadiness of his movement identify him for me. Harry Potter. Who else could it possibly be, walking so fearlessly, so unflinchingly and unwaveringly, towards the terrible, beautiful monster that is me?**_

"_**Harry…" I want to say. "Potter..." slips from within thin, malicious lips, and I barely recognise my own voice, for it isn't the clear, elegant, smooth texture that I so often use, but a low, deathly hiss that sounds like a stranger. He is but a few feet away from me now, standing proud despite a few wounds decorating his body here and there, my warrior, and I marvel at the breathtaking hardness of his eyes and the steel-like sharpness of his will; and yet I know, somehow, that this is not a time for affection. This is a time for war.**_

"_**Voldemort" the man states passionlessly, and for a second I am a little taken aback; is that really my name, I wonder? But it must be, since he calls for me with it, and there is no shadow of a doubt in his weary but steadfast voice; and I am overwhelmed with the desire to throw myself into his arms and clash my body against his with cruelty and desperation, to kiss him with affection and brutality, to claim him a thousand times over.**_

_**Instead, and to my growing horror, I feel my hand being **__**lifted as if by a will strange and hostile to mine, and I point my wand at him, my archetypal hero, my quintessential man. He responds by lifting his own, weathered hands between us with a precise and graceful movement; that's right, I vaguely remember in a fond manner (or is it a hateful one?), he does not use a wand.**_

_**The detached, ghostly sadness lurking behind the resolute hardness of his eyes tells me of the following: this is a duel to the death, and there can be no place for mercy here. **__**Why**__** are we doing this, I ask myself, overtaken by wild desperation and terror, and the words echo inside my mind like a helpless, miserable wail; yet I feel the question being shrugged off coldly, carelessly by the monster that is now me.**_

_**And thus I come to realise, finally, what I am. I am but a little piece of past, a small, powerless fragment of conscience named Tom Marvolo Riddle, lost and drowning inside the infite landscapes of Voldemort's insanity. I've spent all my youth being Tom Riddle, a boy with a dark passenger in the back of his mind, with a hidden monster; and here I am now, that monster itself, Voldemort, with nothing left of me but a small, hopeless voice in the back of my mind, named Tom Riddle.**_

_** A prisoner in my own body.**_

_**I watch on in horror, feeling more powerless, more miserable than I ever have, as my body moves under commands that are not my own, firing exceptionally brutal curses at the man before me, and although I'd do anything to make this stop, I am painfully aware that there is nothing I can do, because I am nothing more but a pathetic piece of shackled, suppressed, imprisoned conscience, helpless before the spreading malady within my mind. And so we fight, and fight, and fight, and it seems to go on for hours, with curses and hexes and rituals and spells and incantations, dark and light, physical and mental, until our bodies are both breaking down like old, damaged toys.**_

_**When the "Avada Kedavra" flies towards Harry Potter, I am relieved to know that he is far enough to dodge it with one of his elegant, experienced manoeuvres. Only he doesn't.**_

_**The ruthless green light hits his chest, and he falls.**_

_**He falls.**_

_**A disgusting sense of triumph spreads inside me like a virulent disease, and I know that Voldemort is pleased. But I, I feel only pain; a pain so excruciating, so deep and strong and blunt and unbearable that I want to rip my face upon with my nails, and I want to carve endless open gashes into my chest, and grieve forever more. Instead, I discover myself simply laughing, and the empty, hollow sounds of my void soul reigns upon the scorched lands and the ruins.**_

_**Then, somehow, Potter coughs.**_

_**He is not dead yet, I mutter to myself hoarsely, and I am flooded with wild, unrestrained hope, with savage, almost desperate hope, that is quickly crushed when my eyes fall upon him; he is not dead, but he is dying.**_

"_**Why did you not dodge, you glorious, you exquisite, you magnificent idiot?" I want to question him accusingly with warm tears running down my eyes, and kiss him and take him into my arms and mourn upon his fallen body until earth ends and the sun goes forever dark. "How pathetic. I thought you would have at least dodged that one. You could have won," I mutter instead, my voice full of hateful venom, full of scorn, derision, mockery and contempt, my eyes dry.**_

"_**I could have. But I love you, you know," he says with this astounding simplicity of his, this incomparable matter-of-factness, and his beautiful lips contort into a smile so bittersweet, so heartbreaking that I feel myself shattering into a thousand pieces. And his eyes are not hard anymore; they are gentle, and caring, and so miraculously warm that I can almost feel it spread inside me.**_

_**Suddenly the grief, the pain, THE CURSED GRIEF is so strong, so shockingly commanding, that it floods the void shell that is Voldemort, wrecking everything, filling everything, dominating everything, breaking all the shackles and the prisons and the convenient little departments inside this damaged mind. Tom Riddle is released, and he pushes forward, taking over the disgusting ruin that is this deplorable, disfigured, immortal body, fuelled with loneliness and pain and endless desperation.**_

_**And so I kneel next him, my green man, and I take his head against my chest as tenderly as this slithery, monstrous body can allow me.**_

**_"Don't go yet. I care for you, I..." I whisper gently , and it sounds like a little prayer. It is too late, of course. The only beating heart within miles, is my own wicked, worthless, wretched bundle of flesh._**

_**The only reply is the psithurism of the winds.**_

* * *

When I wake up, I am not, unlike so many times before, drowned in sweat, or terribly frightened, or shaking with horror; instead I feel perfectly void, cold, and bereft of life, for there is no feeling that could possibly allow me to release all that this dream has created inside of me. Completely unable to find an appropriate emotion to express myself, I find myself without any whatsoever emotion instead; a pile of shapeless, inanimate matter, numb and empty, staring blankly at the dark wall for long, senseless minutes before the pain eventually sinks in.

When it ultimately does, my diaphragm shakes into an irrepressible sob, and I cry harder than I ever have before; at least as long I could possible remember, and Merlin knows I can remember far, far back. Unable to hold back, I practically throw myself (how ridiculous, oh Morgana, how pitiful) at the sleeping man, my heart suddenly racing and my mind filled with innumerable, tangled thoughts, and before I can even make a conscious decision about my current actions, my mouth opens.

"YOU HAREBRAINED, INCORRIGIBLE... exquisite... IDIOT! You despicable, pitiful, disgusting moron! You and your pathetic heroics, and your fucking self-sacrificial fetishes, and your repugnant courage. You cursed, foolish man, you odious, ridiculous, idealist, you… You naive little piece of worthless flesh. You useless, loving retard, you thrice-damned, annoying, laughable, wonderful idiot... How dare you..." I discover myself screaming at him, and punching his chest repeatedly with vengeful force, and shaking him to the rhythm of my own sobs.

_Lalochezia: emotional relief gained by the excessive use of abusive or vulgar language_, it occurs to me distantly, but I still can't manage to make myself stop.

He stares at me then, eyes wide in surprise, and then immediately softened by understanding, and he wraps his arms around me protectively while I keep on punching his chest with relentless mania, and insulting him desperately, miserably. It is only when our eyes meet and lock, however, that I finally manage to regain my composure and that I can, at least partially, slow my breathing down, quench my tongue and contain my unbecoming sobbing; despite my effort though, I still discover my slightly trembling hands hitting his chest lightly, almost lovingly.

"Tell me," he whispers gently, and he pushes back a few strands of dark hair that had fallen in front of my face just like a lover would, I think, even though I know nothing of lovers. He does nothing about my silly little punches; I guess he understands.

"If it ever comes down to it, I want you to **fight** me, fight with all you have, Potter... Harry. I want you... I _need_ you to try your best to kill me. No self-sacrificial theatrics, no emotionally ridden heroics, no mercy for my lost soul. You'll kill me. I need your oath on this. Your wizard's oath," I tell him with a trembling, broken, but also profoundly unhesitating, commanding voice, and I try to pin my gaze on him as seriously, and steadily as I can.

His lips part a little, but his eyes, these beauteous eyes with their mesmerising, deathly colour, do not widen in surprise, and I conclude that he comprehends quite well the desperation hidden behind my voice, and the alarmed zeal, the neediness of my demand. He does not immediately respond, nonetheless, and so a slightly edgy silence hovers above us for a while, causing my jaw to clench and my nails to dig into the fabric of his shirt with fervent urgency, shaking him a little.

"Alright," he finally states, softly and perhaps a little resignedly, and his features express a gravity so absolute that he barely looks his the sort of individual one would analyse ice-cream favours with.

A wizarding oath is cast that night, with Nagini serving as the magical witness, and I have no regrets about its content.

_If we do end up on opposite sides, if all else fails, then let us at least fight one another with all our heart._

* * *

Harry's PoV

In the morning, we quickly pack our rather numbered belongings, and there are barely any words exchanged. The events of last night seem to be keeping both of our minds exceptionally busy, I guess. Even during breakfast, I cannot bring myself to take my mind off the image of him, urgency, fear and desperation choking his lithe body, commanding me to murder him if I must. His eyes, haunted and pleading, and yet authoritative and certain, are still burning inside my chest. Deep blue pools of internal conflict.

Although I did not find it in me to question him about it, I know what his nightmare had been about, except from perhaps a few less important details. I do have these sort of dreams myself, after all.

I lift my eyes from the tea and the biscuits, the cake, the milk and the lemon-drops, and I find the boy eating silently, elegantly, his perfect, unearthly face still and void of all emotion. He loos like... how to put this... a pharaonic sculpture at times; a set of lines so harmonious and striking that they seem to be related not to this petty world, but to the divinity beyond it. Or something poetic like that. And yet this gorgeous façade is fragile, a thin layer beneath which lurks a tumultuous sea of pain, guilt and hatred. A tragedy incarnate.

"Vhy so gloomy today, vizards?" Gellert Grindelwald asks light-heartedly (that bastard always sounds light-hearted, somehow), and he offers us a charming smirk. "Achhh. Little kids never vant holidays to be over, ya?" he adds, and even I cannot tell if the teasing affection in his voice is genuine, or is he is contemptuously mocking us. I guess that for someone like him, the difference must be very slight.

"I am not exactly looking forward to all these noisy Gryffindors, slimy Slytherins, clueless Hufflepuffs and obsessive Ravenclaws…" I mutter from between my teeth. Of course, this is not the actual reason for my rather silent and serious predisposition, but I somehow feel that it is safer to try and satisfy a former Dark Lord's curiosity.

"Are you going to Apparate directly into the castle, Harry, my boy?" my future mentor asks when we later leave the cottage, and stand in the middle of a green field, luggage in hand. I study his face a little, and discover him to appear concerned. I wonder if it the apparition he is concerned about, or is somehow this incredibly astute man has managed to discern the heaviness lingering between me and Riddle. The latter seems more probable, I guess, being the meddlesome prodigy he is.

"Yes. We'll side-Apparate into the Room of Requirement, so don't worry about it. There is no chance whatsoever of us being seen," I reply and I offer him my best reassuring smile, which still doesn't appear to convince him that much. Nonetheless, he smiles back caringly, and pats my back. Tom Riddle does not even seem to be paying attention to the conversation, his eyes wander off to the distance, miles and miles away from us. He is as entirely detached as when we first met, I note bitterly.

"Let us be going then, Tom." I declare, pulling him back to our current reality. He simply nods and grabs my hand in a rather blunt manner; his skin feels unnaturally cold, and the wind blows his dark hair right into his face, something to which he, oddly enough, does not react.

We Apparate, and immediately take our separate ways.

* * *

Later in the evening, as I walk towards the library to check up a few things in order to better grade a few Transfigurations' papers, I come face to face with Minnie McGonagall. She is carrying an incredibly heavy-looking stack of books, and does not notice me at first. She seems to be on a hurry; she always does, now that I think about it, never wasting a single second; no wonder she grew into an impatient, driven woman.

"Hello there Miss McGonagall. Has was your holiday, then?" I greet her amicably, wearing a genuinely warm smile. I do hold much affection for the woman she will become, after all; Minerva did at some point evolve into one of my closest friends and most precious comrades. A force of nature, one to be reckoned with!

"Oh, good evening Assistant Professor Potter! I am sorry I didn't see you, it's just the books and…" she mutters a little embarrassedly, and yet quite enthusiastically. The lively, sharp gleam in her eyes reminds so much of my dearest 'Mione that I have to hold back a bitter smile of sadness from appearing onto my face.

"That's fine. I can tell that this pile of books is not helping with your range of vision," I let her know with a slightly teasing edge on my voice, and she flushes a little.

"Mn. I did look into the side-project you assigned to me, by the way. I unfortunately have not had the time to write anything down but it was extremely interesting and I…" she suddenly starts rambling, full of endearing academic enthusiasm. She gets so terribly excited that she in fact drops a few books, and while getting her wand out to summon them back onto the top of the pile, she drops a few more, and then she smiles a little awkwardly.

I chuckle at her and, with a quick spin of the wand I levitate all of her books into a perfectly aligned pile, thanking Merlin that I remembered not to do it wandlessly in front of a terribly curious and smart student like her.

"Well, since we are both heading for the library, you could perhaps offer me a few minutes of your time and tell me of your findings in person. I am highly interested in that particular project, and it is of great relevance to my current research. I am truly eager to know of the conclusions you have reached. I did not assign this project to _you _without thought, I must admit. I am certain you will be of great help to me," I offer amicably, and she blushes so hard that I am almost afraid it might affect her blood circulation.

It is adorable how a little flattery on the subject of her brainpower will make her wobbly with joy, I think to myself amusedly. She and Hermione must have come out of the same factory. And should probably come with the same user's manual.

A few minutes later, we are sitting face to face inside the fortunately empty library.

"Well, I must admit it was very difficult finding reliable sources about that particular ritual, professor Potter, but I am of course very glad you gave me such a challenging assignment; it was very exciting to dig into. At first I visited the muggle museum of…" she begins, her whole face beaming with happiness, and her hands waved around in a describing fashion.

And so I listen carefully while she explains her quest through Muggle museums, Egyptological archives, magoarcheological manuscripts, ancient legal documents, myths and traditions of the modern Turks, Hittite rituals and whatnot, feeling even more impressed than I thought I would. And of course, highly unrefined in comparison.

Analysing, explaining and comparing, she talks on and on while I marvel at the meticulous, thorough methodology of her investigation, and I try my best to absorb this overwhelming rain of information.

"Oddly enough, that French poet had also heard of a similar legend, only it seems he must have introduced some elements from the tale of the Deathly Hallows into it, for he spoke of two formidable, twin Elder Wands…"

_Wait, what?_


	40. Chapter 40

Disclaimer: I am so full of win that I am inherently unable to "own". I only PWN!11! And yes, the capitalisation is also obligatory.

A/N: Ok, IMPORTANT STUFF, PLEASE READ: NougatEvolution wrote a great and _criminally amusing_ one-shot based on Wand Cores. Some kind of meta-tribute/parody that is simply awesome. It's called Graduation Trips and you will go and read it NOW. Seriously, you will do that. I believe in you.

ALSO, ok, I know I have quite a lot of reviews by now, but PLEASE DON'T STOP LEAVING REVIEWS for this story. It is emotionally important to me to know my silliness is being read and appreciated. And I also want to hit the 1.000 mark, just because I am a selfish bitch like that. Thank you.

To Moth Gupsy: Your King quote was great food for thought, and so was your Minerva theory. And I fully understand why you wouldn't want that dream to be prophetic. We are all suckers for happy endings deep inside, ne?

To Fleur Princess: Don't worry, the plot won't be labyrinthine and sadistic. It will make sense in due time. The pieces will come together more smoothly than cats gliding on cream cheese.

To Magesa: YES! You noticed! Believe me, I know there's a loophole in Tom's plan *wink*. I _planted _it there. And Riddle will realise it, too. In this very chapter! Duh-duh…

To Bobbete13: My opinion on Patronuses is a bit controversial. See, it is indirectly implied in canon (and widely accepted in fanon) that Patronuses are also, to a degree, a criterion of "goodness". A truly evil person could not possibly cast one, apparently. If that is the case, then Patronuses simply representing protection doesn't make sense, since there is no reason an evil wizard shouldn't have people that want to, for various reasons, protect him or even ones _he _might want to protect. Patronuses representing loved ones does, however, make sense in that aspect (see Tonk's becoming a wolf when she fell for Lupin). Yet that last theory bugs me for another reason. Do all "good" people have loved ones? I am not sure. By experience I know that there are many great and kind people, who, for various reasons, have come to live isolated and loveless. And so I tried a different approach; that of a Patronus representing the ultimate good in oneself, the purest part of our souls. Usually, that part is our love for others, but this is not, as we see, necessarily the case.

* * *

Chapter 40

Potter's PoV

While the ridiculously shocking concept of _two _Elder Wands sinks slowly into my brain, I try my best to hide my growing agitation. Giving McGonagall clues on my signature-blended time-travelling nature would be a terribly bad idea. Therefore I force a vaguely, distractedly, and only mildly interested expression onto my face, and lift my left eyebrow.

"Oh… Twin Elder Wands? How spectacular. This would imply that, if these wands indeed existed and were actually used, a couple of signature-blended wizards must have existed at the time of their creation. This clue points to magical twins having existed more recently than we previously believed," I half-question half-mention, looking around the room idly in order to avoid the young girl's eyes. Fortunately, she seems to be too excited to notice anything off about my behaviour.

Just like 'Mione, I think to myself fondly. When she is in the midst of an academic project, she barely even registers the possible emotions of other people.

"Well… The legend of the Peverell brothers is just that, though. A legend. I doubt that an odd variation of it that happens to appear here and there is really a clue on similarities of the magical psyche's structure, professor…" the young girl mutters pensively, and then she flips a few pages on some old, mouldy tome, scratching her chin with dedicated thoughtfulness. Her eyes squint a little as she analyses a few passages.

"That is quite right, isn't? And yet, I assure you that my admittedly few, but also very meaningful experiences involving myths, legends and prophecies have led me to conclude that no such tale is born without a reason. You know, the whole no smoke without fire rule; well it seems to be quite true," I state amicably, trying not to look too excited by this discovery. For a second her gaze is not only inquisitive, but also slightly unconvinced. I guess it is a good thing that I look just like the trustworthy and ethical person I actually am, because eventually she offers me a small, awkward smile.

My amicable face does seem to occasionally defeat rational thinking, I muse, entertained.

"I would have thought this particular piece of evidence to be very unimportant compared to others… I mean, it doesn't even come from a trustworthy source… But if it is relevant to your research, then perhaps I could look into it. And I fully understand why you would not want to tell me the exact way in which it is relevant. I mean, I am just a young student and all. I didn't mean to overstep and…" Minnie then mumbles slightly embarrassedly, and she scratches the back of her head. I interrupt her.

"Don't worry about it at all. I am grateful you worked so hard on my little project, and you're being great help to me. When I have reached some conclusions that I can assuredly present, I will surely let you know all about them. For now, may I take a look as that passage myself?" I ask her politely, and I beam at her as warmly as I can, causing her to blush a little. She hands the heavy tome over, and I discover the smell of its yellowed pages to be oddly soothing. Perhaps my bookish friends throughout the timelines know better when choosing the company of these intriguing objects over constant socialising.

_**Dominique Michael Mercier**__**, considered during his time to be the French Chaucer of the wizarding world, also mentions an ancient legend concerning the existence of an Elder Wand in his poetic collection of traditional tellings; a tale that holds striking similarities to the well-known Tale of the Three Brothers. Nevertheless, in Mercier's rather succint retelling of the story, one main difference stands out. There is mention of not one, but two Elder Wands, given by Death to Antioch Peverell and, quaintly enough, his "twin".**_

_**This passage still creates great controversy, for it not even compatible with the rest of Mercier's story, wherein there are three and not four Peverell brothers listed: our familiar Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus, just as encountered in the traditional version of the tale, found in "The Tales of Beedle the Bard". There has been much speculation about this issue. Some presume that, if the tale is to be believed to hold some truth, the fourth Peverell brother might have been separated at birth with his twin, and therefore he could have been carrying a different surname; in that case it would be accurate to talk of Antioch' twin, but also to not list said twin as a "Peverell" brother. **_

_**Another theory on this matter tells of the possibility of Antioch having been one of two conceived twins, where the second sibling died during pregnancy and was merged into the larger, healthier twin. This is a phenomenon that is actually not that uncommon, and there have been many listed cases in the tomes of our Medical Science. In that case, it could be that, inside the tale itself, Antioch is perceived by Death to be carrying two magical cores, and is thus given two wands; one for himself, and one for his "twin", the additional core that he'd been carrying from birth.**_

_**Further speculation has gone as far as to ponder upon the possibility of a "twin" having been a polite manner of referring to a male lover that has been bound to life by means of a Lover's Blood Ritual, but that is somewhat unlikely, since other euphemisms for such relations were used at the time; mostly "inseparable friend" and "lasting companion". Lastly, there has been some talk on the obscure possibility of the characterisation of "twins" being related to the outcome signature-altering bonding rituals. However, such magicks have not been in use since the times of Ancient Egypt, Greece and Mesopotamia, and it is thus improbable that legacies of that sort survived within French folk tales. Moreover, Antioch Peverell was famed for ambition and combativeness, and it can perhaps be pondered upon that had he had a companion that would strengthen him magically, he would not have been accounted to "always fight alone".**_

I re-read the paragraphs again, and again, letting the bundle of incredible possibilities be, once again, slowly drained into my overheating mind. The words seem to detach themselves from the weathered pages, gaining a life entirely of their own, and they mock for not understanding the hidden message behind them. My mind reels, and I bite my lip exasperated, trying to discover what this information could possible imply. Damnit, I am simply not the right person to be deciphering obscure folk tales; where's a trustworthy 'Mione when you need one?

It doesn't make any sense.

None at all.

Two Elder Wands?

Antioch's twin?

Damn.

And then, suddenly, it makes all the sense in the world, and I feel the cold air being sharply drawn into my lungs as I gasp with silent realisation.

* * *

Antioch did not bind himself to another wizard with a signature-blending ritual. If that was the case, his brothers would not experience the after-effects of such a ritual, and neither would Tom and I, his brothers' distant relatives. It would not make sense. What _would _make sense though, would be Antioch _himself _being a victim of cross-generational traces of signature bending, traces carried within his family line.

A family line to which both Tom and I belong, for I am a distant descendant of Ignotus', and he one of Cadmus'. Which would mean that somewhere far back in history, all of us must have had a common ancestor that probably performed a particularly strong blending ritual, or, in fact, a simply _ridiculously_ strong one, whose residual effects are in place still now. It would explain quite neatly why Tom and I are exhibiting the abilities of magical twins; even though these magical residues must have been weakened generation after generation, we both happened to not only coincide in time and carry these magical traces as a silent genetic burden, but also hold some sort of activated version of the residues.

The mechanics could work much like some cases of Muggle biology's recessive genes, I observe, awed by the ridiculous simplicity.

It would be an impressive coincidence for us to both carry such activated magical traces, but since last time it happened was more than five hundred years ago, it is not that improbable for it to be occuring again now.

As for the two wands…

Well, at least their existence explains why I did not, back at the time, find myself experiencing the same control over a plane of existence as Dumbledore did. I had, while I was still residing within my familiar timeline, thought that this supposed "mastery of Death" had been, after all, merely a legend, and that there was no riddle in the fact that nothing had happened even when I had finally collected all the Hallows. However, when Dumbledore kindly presented us his impressive theory, I'd been wondering about this issue once again.

Now, though, I finally know that it is because I had actually not collected _all_ the Hallows that had I gained no particular powers. Which only leaves the following question open: where is the Elder Wand's twin, the wand meant to be held by the Master of Death's signature sibling, and how did Dumbledore, that adorable, impossible coot, manage to, unknowingly, possess it as well, and thus complete his collection?

By proxy, probably. It must have been owned by someone that had either sworn his allegience to Albus, or been defeated by him. And since there was quite a huge number of people belonging to both of these categories, I guess it is not as ridiculously improbable as it might, as first, seem.

Wherever it is, it must not fall into the wrong hands, however.

Perhaps it is best that I keep this thrilling but slightly disturbing theory to myself, I conclude.

"Professor… Are you alright?" a small voice reaches my ears, and I finally zoom back into my present reality, only to find a slightly concerned McGonagall eyeing me with curiosity.

"Oh, yes, I am perfectly fine, young Miss McGonagall. I was just… temporarily overwhelmed by the sheer number of hypotheses that flooded my mind after reading this passage. Does that not happen to you, at times?" I reply cheerfully, and I hand the tome back to the girl, amazed at just how eerily good I'm becoming with matters of deception. That cursed boy is rubbing off on me, I observe amusedly, but I try to keep myself from letting my mind gallop towards Riddle and his shady wiles.

I adjust my glasses and smile goofily. She seems to be perfectly fine with my explanation, and in fact she beams at me, and then babbles enthusiastically about knowing exactly what I mean, and about how drawn one can get when studying, and about that one time when she was digging for data on the menstrual cycle of female werewolves and…

I nod politely during the story, affection warming the depths of my chest at the thought of the brilliant, strong, resolute and fierce woman this little girl will become. One day, when I have a little bit more spare time, I will found the Know-it-alls Appreciation Society, I swear to myself cheerily.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

After I mutter the terribly cliche password, "Dark Jade", I discover with more than a little gratitude, that the vast majority of sound-polluting, irksome children have not yet flooded the establishment, and that, in fact, as far as Slytherin is concerned, I am the first one to have arrived.

As I let my eyes wander around the familiar surroundings of the Slytherin common room, idly noting the slightly amusing overuse of snake patterns and other reptilian symbolism and enjoying my temporary solitude, Abraxas Malfoy walks in, dressed in a manner that could be elegant if his clothes weren't trying so outrageously hard to look expensive, and greets me with a small nod.

His excessively light, as if repeatedly bleached by nature, hair is carefully, if not in an obsessively meticulous manner, combed back, and his pale grey eyes are falling onto to with unhidden interest; but although I really abhor a few of his traits, such as his narcissism and his delusions of grandeur, I do admit that I find him less unpleasant than most of the other slithery house members. At least, unlike the loud and disgusting plebe, he has a decent education, and he is well-versed in literature, art, music and the Dark Arts; and even though he is older than I am and we used to barely ever interact, he recently seems to have sensed my social charisma as well as my power.

The obvious friendliness he displays towards me, and the fashion in which he publicly recognises me as some kind of upcoming prodigy that shall, without doubt, obtain great influence and following, have actually caused many upperclassmen to turn their eyes to me and look for whatever he has been seeing there. In that sense, he is quite useful to me, for he is the route through which my power can extend from the pathetic children my own age towards the real circles of Slytherin society; and therefore I also nod at him, allowing my lips to twitch with the suspicion of a smirk.

"How were your holidays, Riddle? I hear you left quite… suddenly for a destination that even our houses' skilled gossip vine did not manage to get hold of. But that is not surprising. You are a very… private person, are you not?" he enunciates with his flawless, aristocratic British, letting a few words linger on his tongue like little hisses; his thin mouth slowly curves upwards into a shape sugary and haughty in equal parts.

"As any child's holidays would be, Malfoy; I'm afraid I've nothing particular to report. Just… fun and games," I reply smoothly, throwing away from my face, with a small, precise movement of the hand, a dark and wavy lock of hair. I place my stare carefully but steadily onto his own, intruiged gaze, and let the two lock, while I pour all my sharp, merciless complexity, all my unreadable neutrality and my dominance into the ocular exchange.

He does not immediately turn his eyes away, like all these pitiful, ambitious but cowardly worms who like pretend they are the crème de la crème do, and seems momentarily entranced and drawn by the darkness he sees in me, rather than frightened; yet, he does eventually break the eye-contact, probably made uneasy by the sheer intensity of it. Suddenly, I feel a wave of nausea at the sight of that fool.

He thinks that death, and pain, and torture are a fairly intriguing subject of study, that idiotic, sheltered bourgeois, and likes to think himself a connoisseur of all matters dark; he who has experienced these things solely from the luxurious safety of his mansion, and who knows nothing of the burden that being a monster is. He believes matters of obscure, forbidden magicks to be something one studies to be a powerful, edgy, controversial wizard, and to acquire this air of dangerousness that goes down so well with the girls, and remains blissfully ignorant of the excruciating conflict that tears apart those who are truly inflicted with an unnatural taste for cruelty and violence.

One day I will make sure to teach him a constructive lesson on what darkness truly is, and just how unpleasant a brush with it can be.

"Right, Riddle. I am sure it was all fun and games. Whatever you are preparing, young snake, make sure you don't leave me out of your… calculations," Abraxas mutters pleasantly, and even though I can sense that I have indeed intimidated him a little, I cannot but admire his self-control and poise; and yet, my mind flickers away to Potter's honesty and his open, warm face. That enigmatic and yet sincere man is truly beginning to affect my ethical judgements, especially ones on personality traits, I realise in both horror and, eerily enough, affection.

"I am not sure I see what you mean. My plans for the future involve little more than my career plans, and perhaps, a family at a later date. I am unsure how you could possibly be related to them," I answer with a soft, unemotional smile, my voice factual and impassive, and I see his jaw clench a little, and his silver eyes harden in anger as he takes a supposedly intimidating step forward.

"All these people, these laughable morons around us, they think highly of you, the quiet, sincere, hard-working, orphaned prodigy. The charming, charismatic, intellectually gifted boy with the sad eyes and perfect features. But I can tell what you are. You are just like me. You are meant for an entirely different kind of greatness, Tom, and I know you are already building your way to it. I can already see how the lower class Slytherins gather around you; it is a discreet, faint movement, and perhaps they do not even realise the nature of their behaviour yet, but it is much like the one bees exhibit around their queen," he almost hisses at me, and his eyes are alight with a disturbing, ambitious kind of passion, his breath quickening as he pushes me back to the wall.

"You are building an army. I can help you. We could be… great friends," he finally concludes, and his voice is dripping with seductiveness and greed, his pupils somewhat dilated and his lips ever so slightly parted, as he finally makes his move; and I am well aware that the nature of his move is not merely amicable and strategic in the confines of this castle, but also a wider political move, an offer of alliance. He must already be sensing in me an upcoming Dark Lord, which is flattering, but also profoundly worrisome, for this is _not _what I _want _to be.

Malfoys, always drawn to power like moths to the flame, I think to myself, and my first thought concerning his rather sleazily formulated offer is to bite back with a venomous, witty retort, one that would be cutting enough to send him away flinching in ire. However, since I have already challenged Walpurga Black to a nasty round of social warfare, and with her being a rather thorny and viperous foe, it is probably best that I do not blatantly reject Abraxas' friendship.

"I see. A most interesting offer. I will keep it mind. But let me warn you, my… friend, that I am not like you. I am something entirely… different," I whisper with a malignant, dangerous but also slightly playful voice, fixing the cool, shadowy abysses of my eyes into his own silver pool again, and lifting my graceful hand between us before placing a few elongated, pallid fingers onto his chest. Subsequently, I let the vicious, brutal fragments of my magical psyche's structure free from restraint, causing my immense power to flare around me like a halo of imminent death.

He steps back clumsily, awe and fear filling his face simultaneously as he abruptly realises just how vulnerable and imperilled he is in my presence; and although I am aware that revealing to him just how monstrously strong I already am might be a substantial risk, I am also certain that he will not share this delicate information with anyone, not only out of fear, but also out of sheer selfishness and personal ambition.

"Incredible. Simply incredible... The void left behind by Lord Grindlewald… You could one day…" he mutters, and his skin appears even paler than usual under the light of the flickering candles as bead of perspiration forms next to his sharp cheekbone, following by an odd, twitching smile, both frightened and intoxicated.

"I know better than anyone else what I am capable of, Abraxas. And in due time, you will know, too; for I am the finer outcome of this of dark, warmongering zeitgeist, of our sick spirit of the times, of the desperate, decadent vox populi of our House. You will all know soon enough," I reply matter-of-factly, in a tone neutral and blasé, tilting my head a little to offer him a cruel and domineering smirk and narrowing my eyes in a darkly seductive manner. For a second he appears to be breathless at the sight, and his eyes become clouded with desire and admiration.

I inwardly congratulate myself on my astounding acting skills, and give him one last, icy smile.

As I turn my back and glide towards my room, I ponder upon the disgusting ease with which a proud man can be turned into a servile, pitiful creature.

* * *

Later in the evening, as the crimson rays of the setting sun creep into my room, I stretch my build peacefully on my comfortable bed, conversing with my beauteous and perceptive little snakeling. She is laying lazily on the middle of my stomach, languorously enjoying the warmth of my body, her shimmering, amber eyes squinting with pleasure as I gently trail her splendid form with my fingers.

"Thingss sshall become quite challenging ssoon enough, Nagini dearest. The Sslytherin housse is quite obssesssive with itss valuess of purity and desspotism, and if I am to follow a path different from the one I followed in Harry'ss timeline, I will either have to face them all as enemiesss, or conquer, lead and sssomehow, manage to ssubtly change the very ssstructure, the very esssence of their group," I confide in her pensively, letting my gaze wander off to the oranges and reds of the gradually darkening horizon.

"Hnnnn. That iss, indeed, true. Sssnakess are a sstuborn, conservative and haughty bunch. Perhapss, insstead of either facing all of them, or trying to conquer their mindsss and ssave them, you could try triggering ssome kind of civil war. Take the conflict between you and that nassty, sssuperiority-complexed girl to another level, for example. Usse it to dichotomise your houssse," the young, adorable viper suggests coyly, and she rubs her long, smooth body against my lithe torso; I smile at her, admiring the vermillion sparkles created by the sunset reflecting off her lovely scales.

"Divide and conquer, then. A timelesss method. I'd call you amoral, and ssly, but ssince you are a _viper_, I'd be sstating the obviousss," I quickly respond, holding back a most genuine and affectionate chuckle; but truly, there is nothing funny about the objective brilliance of her cunning idea, and I cheerily note that she makes an excellent advisor indeed.

"Amoral? You are sseriously vexing me. I merely believe that ssometimess, the end justifiess the meanss. And when the end iss you being happy with that green man of yoursss, insstead of turning into ssome inssane ssnake-man, then _any _meanss are jussstified. It'ss all become I ssuch a _devoted _pet," Nagini hisses playfully and she slithers up to curl around my body and rest her majestic head into the nape of my neck, like some kind of cursed kitten.

"Thank you for morally jussstifying all ssorts of terrible thingss I am about to do, in advance. If Potter knew what a bad influence you would be, I am sssure he wouldn't have gotten you for me," I state half-seriously, half-humorously, and for a few moments I close my eyes tiredly, letting the merciful, dolorifuge light of the setting sun relax my weary mind, within which thousands of thought squirm and wiggle and quiver.

"Well, if you ssslip too far, he'ss bound himself to kill you, sso do not worry that much, young little masster," she whispers mockingly into my ear, and even though I believe she might be trying to either tease me or upset me with that comment of hers, it is actually quite a reassuring thought to me; I'd certainly choose death over the pain of becoming a mere fragment of a cadaverous horror's conscience, a powerless source of the occasional parapraxis.

"Thank you for thessse tolutiloquent and comforting obsservationss," I mumble, realising with quite some surprise that I actually feel terribly exhausted, and that an overwhelming desire to fall asleep is slowly creeping into me.

Suddenly, something hideous dawn upon me, and I lose all tendency for relaxation.

The Wizarding Oath I'd forced Potter into taking with me involved the case in which we'd face one another as enemies, and bound the time-traveller into not holding his magical power back, and into showing no hesitation or faltering in killing me if it came down to that. _How absolutely, utterly, pitifully, laughably, comically, disgustingly ridiculous to have a man swear he'd not sacrifice his life unless he wants to face a death panelty! What a senseless, hollow, idiotic, meaningless tautology!_

If Harry, that strong, brave, stupid, foolish Harry were to face a rising Voldemort, Wizard's Oath or not, he'd still be faced with the following, identical choice: to either try his best to murder me, or let himself be killed. And he'd still be able to choose the latter one, no matter what sort of terrible oath I could possibly have him take.

For a genius, I can be shockingly retarded at times, I think to myself bitterly, trying to ignore the stinging in my chest.

I shut my eyes with fervent mania in a futile effort to put a halt to the visions of a bleak, bloodied future, and I push last night's painful, cruel dream as far from my mind as I possibly can, with desperation and urgency, refusing to think of it as prophetic.

No, these dark, sick nightmares are simply the abhorrent combination of my nauseating childhood experiences and of Potter's terrible, suffocating memories, meeting and mangling and merging through the emotional bond that magical siblings share. I vehemently believe in my green man's ability to save whatever good there is in me, and I also believe, I _have _to believe in my own, damaged, self, in my humanity and my perseverance.

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I never lose.

And even if I have to wage war against my own, sick, self, I will accept no defeat.

* * *

Small A/N: I tried to obey canon the best I could, while advancing the plot. Cadmus being Riddle's great-great-great-grandfather is canon, as is Ignotus being Potter's. A healthier twin absorbing a sickly twin is ALSO canon, as far as real life goes. Traces of Mesopotamian legacies found is European folk tales is also something fairly common, actually, and of course, the fact the Voldemo... Tom and Potter influence each other's dreams is the most canon-est thing ever.


	41. Chapter 41

Disclaimer:

Make no mistake  
You shan't escape  
Tethered and tied  
There's nowhere to hide from me!

All mine...  
You have to be...

-Portishead

A/N: YES, it has been ages. If you were worried about me on a personal level (I was surprised to find that some of you were!), send a message and I shall explain to you in exactly what ways life has been a bitch to me. I'd rather not whine about it here though, because this is my fanfic, and not my journal or whatever. I'd like you all to know that this story is **NOT DISCONTINUED**. I will keep on writing until it is done, even if sometimes updating takes a while. I refuse to abandon a story so many people have actually grown attached to.

Also, I APOLOGISE to all those you were reading my story on a weekly basis, and now can no longer remember what the hell happened in the previous chapter, or where the plot is at. I understand that it must be seriously annoying for you to have to re-read a few chapters back, and I am sorry. You are welcome to send Howlers.

I must also THANK all those who encouraged me to continue, and reveal that I have a present for them: I have uploaded some Wand Cores art! It can be found on my newly made DeviantArt account, LydiaKitten. Enjoy this little visualisation helper.

* * *

Chapter 41

Tom's PoV

The heavy door slowly creeks open, and I find Potter sitting comfortably on the dark mahogany desk, the first button of his robes carelessly unbuttoned, his head turned to the small, arched window and his eyes, as they so often do, wandering off to the distance. The sun has started to set (it sets so early during the winter, I muse to myself), and its light has acquired this odd golden hue: not the gentle, warm colour of cereal, like it shines in the summertime, but instead a colour dry and cold, much like the metallic reflections of an aged artefact.

At first the time-traveller does not turn his head at all, and I find myself wondering if he has actually heard me enter, quickly dismissing the possibility of him being so deep in thought as to be unaware of my presence, for I know just how extraordinary his reflexes are; only a few moments later does he eventually bring his body to face mine, offering me a soft smile.

"Good afternoon, Tom. How's Hogwarts treating you?" he asks as I seat myself on the weathered chair just across his desk, and I cannot help but notice how distracted he seems, and how his voice, despite its depth and friendliness, sounds rather distant and detached compared to its usual tone, thus making me somewhat uncomfortable at the thought of having disturbed his time of private deliberation.

"With unreserved adoration," I reply quite honestly, if not with a bit of a bitter bite, and I cross my lanky hands in front of my body. My thoughts flicker towards my recent discussion with the conceited and dangerously greedy individual that is Abraxas Malfoy, my little act and subsequent decision of assuming control of my House in order to deconstruct its disgusting and degenerate ways from the inside, and I wonder whether I should let my future guardian know of these events.

At first I decide against it, noting that my impulsive desire to share with him the details of my personal life underlines the worrisome growth of my pathetic neediness, especially since I somehow feel obliged to earn his approval for every single one of my actions: a behaviour that I am deeply ashamed of; however, I soon conclude that earning his trust is more important that attempting to deny my own growing emotional dependence.

"Abraxas Malfoy confronted me about my future ambitions yesterday, and since he seemed... strangely convinced that my career choices would not stray too far from Dark Lord, Scheming Minister or Influential Warlock, I decided to confirm his suspicions and reveal my grand plan of world domination. I also allowed my... unpleasant magic to roam around a little, as to amplify my point and improve the theatrical quality of the moment. Unfortunately, he was more aroused than he was terrorised by my clarifications," I add, in a light, conversational tone, and I present the green man with the tiniest smirk. I watch, rather amused, as his left eyebrow slowly bends upwards, and he brings his calloused fingers towards his stubble in order to scratch it thoughtfully; his face cannot decide on whether to depict entertainment or worry.

"You still have a grand plan of world domination?" he asks, not without humour; and yet, behind his joking smile, I can discern the seriousness and importance of the question, and experience a moment of disappointment at the realisation that he does not yet trust me not to plan out and eventually attempt a coup. I hold a sad sigh back at the very last moment, and I lift my eyes to meet his again, with a gaze grave, straightforward, weary and even a little accusing.

"No. Not any more. I'll probably settle for the English Ministry, I think, and maybe even do so through legal means. Imagine that," I state, and even though my tone is sarcastic and suggests humour, I suppose I am in part being painfully honest; I'd be lying if I were to state I no longer have any ambitions whatsoever, after all. He throws a deeply weary but not entirely unamused look my way, a small, tired sigh escaping his chapped lips, and seems about to reply to my little admission when, interrupting him, I swiftly carry on with my explanation of yesterday's events.

"I simply decided that it is time for me to take over Sytherin House, and... bring about some change. Even Salazar himself would be ashamed of the current state of Slytherin, for instead of sincere ambition they are dominated by degenerate desires, and they are reigned over by bribery and connections instead of cunning and intellect. It's pathetic."

"I see... I mean, I _am _slightly concerned at your already acquiring minions, since you've barely walked into puberty and all, but your intentions seem... well, if not good, then at least not as bad as they could have been. Just be careful not to become addicted to the sensation of having others under your direct orders, you know, _power corrupts_ and all," the handsome teaching assistant responds, in equal parts thoughtful and entertained, and then, with a swift and flowing movement, he jumps off the desk and starts walking around the classroom for no evident reason. I sincerely appreciate the effort he is putting into not sounding judgemental, and into covering his mild concern with goofy, Gryffindork humour.

"How did you reach such a decision?" he asks.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Since I no longer wish to become a stereotypical Dark Lord, or to adhere to Slyherin's moral standards for that matter, the traditional Slytherin circles would either turn themselves into my enemy, in which case I would have to destroy them, or I would have to claim victory against them before they even tag me as a traitor, altering the very foundations if the Slytherin house in order to ensure I will never find it standing in my way," I explain simply, as if I'd just pointed out the most blindingly obvious fact in the world, and I lift my angular shoulders a bit, shrugging at him while my gaze falls onto his widening lips, brief flashbacks of our heated kisses stinging in the back of my mind.

"So, since your ambitions and inclinations will no longer resonate with the current populace of Slytherin, you are going to mould Slytherin into something where you can belong? This is... almost frightening," Harry Potter declares, but his intense, unnaturally bright eyes twinkle a little, and his lips curve upwards even further, a ghostly smirk forming on his weather-worn face; he looks to me with an expression of slightly exasperated fondness, and the warmth of my infatuation spreads inside my chest.

"Oh no, I think you misunderstand. I do belong to Slytherin; in fact, I believe I embody all that this house is meant to represent. It is these other pitiful Slytherins that need to be reeducated into not giving their house a bad name with their unbecoming behaviour and uncomely little feuds. As for frightening you... Well, you did frighten me yourself more than once, so it is only fair that I'd also find the opportunity to return the favour for you occasionally," I point out matter-of-factly, and I innocently lopside my head ever so slightly, in a non-serious attempt to appear loveable, to which he reacts by shaking his head disapprovingly, grinning all the while.

"Oh, and you are the very embodiment of justice, are you not?" he words between low chuckles while sitting back onto the desk, and his expression is so overwhelmingly, unabashedly playful, that, despite my most valiant efforts to keep a straight face, my muscles surrender to the formation of a grin.

"Most definitely. Only less blind, and without breasts," I mutter a little darkly, unable to hold back from using the suggestive, silky voice that I usually save for special occasions, and I slowly lean towards him, marginally narrowing my eyes in a clear display of desire. "I hope you are not too disappointed."

"Riddle..." he hisses, both a plea and a menace, and I discover that it sounds much better than "Tom", the dangerous, disapproving manner in which he spits my family name; his face turns blank however, and hard as stone, making it nigh impossible for me to decipher the thoughts whirling behind his green, stormy glare, unless I lean in closer, which I begin to do. "Riddle!"

"Yes? Is there something you... want?"

"Don't," he commands with a voice authoritative and unfaltering, and then he gets up once more and stands before my seated figure, his form towering and unshakeably resolved; I wonder if he realises that this sort of response beats its purpose, drawing me to him even more and rendering him practically irresistible. I say nothing, sealing my lips tightly into a somewhat resigned but knowing smirk, and I simply look up, nailing my icy eyes into the green man's so that I may bask in his furious resistance, before I finally turn them to the ground in a rather hypocritical semblance of defeat.

* * *

"So, can you perform a complete Animagus transformation?" he asks all of a sudden, his tone light and friendly once more, if not cheery, and he begins walking around the empty classroom with the slow, long and heavy steps of a supervisor, his wide, muscular frame swaying ever so slightly, and ever so deliciously. I am, nonetheless, somewhat irritated by the ease with which he shoved my skilfully seductive advances aside, but, truth be told, I did not expect anything even remotely different; he'd declared with finality that during our stay in Hogwarts we'd have to keep our distances, and it would be exceedingly bizarre for him to nullify his own, clear decision. He is simply not that kind of person.

_I'll let you have it your way, for now, my dearest assistant professor. After all, I want to learn from you almost as much as I want to have you._

"I can, in a sense, but I cannot seem to be able to keep the form long enough for the transformation to be considered complete. I am encountering difficulties with stabilising the flow of magic within my animal form." I admit grudgingly, frowning as I recall my irksomely failed attempts at holding my transformation for more than a mere few seconds, and a small part of myself despises him ceaselessly for his uncanny ability to guess my wizarding weaknesses and prod me about them inanely.

"Let me take a look, then." the time-traveller tells me, and the tone of his voice is now so unreasonably cheerful at the prospect of thus ridiculing me, that I feel the muscles around my jaw tighten with ire; nevertheless, I keep my face clean of all emotions, a perfect mask of empty beauty, and I simply get up to comply to his request.

* * *

Potter's PoV

I barely have the time to try and identify the odd, cat-sized mammal in front of me, for it soon starts expending once more, turning into a rather unamused if not mildly resentful Tom Riddle. Slightly confused by the unfamiliar animal, I throw a questioning look at the young Slytherin, and he almost rolls his eyes, obviously expecting the unsaid question.

"I did not know of it either before conducting a rather substantial amount of research. It's called a Fossa, it would seem, and it is apparently native to Madagascar," Tom mutters unhappily, and even though it is terribly faint, a slight blush of embarrassment appears on his somewhat sullen cheeks. I guess I now know why Lord Voldemort's Animagus form did not ever become widely known; he was simply ashamed of using it.

"It looked like a rather mean cross between a cat and a mongoose, from the little I saw. It will probably prove very useful, you know; I am quite envious. Small enough to help you out of ...possible trouble in the very improbable case you'd need to, large enough to defend itself, agile and, well, a practical trick in any case. If you are disappointed with _that_, then what should I say about mine?" I tell him, speaking rather quickly, and then I immediately turn into my own Animagus form, to better illustrate my argument, and consequently alleviate his displeasure.

To be honest really, even after years of practice, I never got quite used to being a Philippine falconet; the sensation is that of being a... very mean sparrow.

"That is a rather interesting form," Tom Riddle comments, his lips forming into a tiny smirk of amusement as soon as I resume my original and thankfully very human form. "Are you aware that the Microhierax genus of the Falconidea species, to which the Philippine falconet belongs, consists of _the smallest birds of prey in the entire word_? I find it almost... poetic," he adds, radiating smugness quite openly, but without maliciousness.

"Your eidetic memory is at times disturbing. And yes, believe me, I know that. Being a mere 14 centimeters and lusting for blood feels terribly bizarre; almost like turning into an aggressive butterfly with a disproportionate sense of self-worth," I mutter darkly, causing him to chuckle a little, his previously blank and bleak visage lightening up.

"Well, you can fly. That ought to be terribly useful in case you'd ever need to, you know, keep out of... possible trouble," he adds playfully, taking great pleasure in spitting my rather pitiful attempt at cheering him up right back at me, and for a few second I am made speechless by the bewitching, mesmerising beauty of his mischievous and teasing eyes. His hair, arranged in perfect, silky waves, frames him like a angel's halo, with the naughty exception of a single dark lock, falling on the side of his forehead. Temptation on two legs; poor Hepzibah Smith never stood a chance.

"And it does indeed make me feel much better about turning into an... ugly and mean imitation of a cat, I am forced to admit," the young, criminally beautiful boy notes additionally, in a tone factual and objective, all while a smile flickers on his lips. His eyes linger on me dangerously. "But if you truly want to make me feel good, I am sure you can do much better than that..."

Suddenly, I discover myself strangely enraged by the Slytherin's generally flirtatious demeanour, the intense suggestiveness of his icy gaze and the maddening manner in which his lips part. Just how the bloody hell am I supposed to ignore the ever-present, overly theatrical and relentless advances of someone as ridiculously attractive as Riddle is, and focus on guiding him in a way stable, reliable and right? I simply do not understand why he'd insist so forcefully when an agreement was supposedly found between us.

_Seriously, Tom Riddle, stop making this so difficult for the both of, you insufferable arse._

"Really, Riddle, I am glad to be of service, but you should stop ...provoking me thus. And we both know full well of what I speak. I thought we had an... understanding," I tell him between gritted teeth, feeling his occasionally discreet but constant tempting getting to me. At the sound of the accusing coolness of my voice, his eyes immediately harden, and his jaw clenches considerably, his nostrils flaring. He looks at me rather angrily, and I look right back into his eyes, my resolve stronger than ever; someone needs to put a halt to his habit of always getting what he wants, when he wants it.

"Oh. Forgive me then, assistant professor, if my attention bothers you. I thought our understanding concerned not ...acting out on my ...interest, not pretending that no such interest even exists. I must have been mistaken," he hisses at me, and his beauty turns poisonous: eyes narrowed in ire, lips made into a thin line and a larger strand of hair falling at the side of his hardened glare. At first I am taken aback by his sudden hostility, but subsequently become irritated, and finally almost angry; he proves himself to be a terribly spoiled child, really.

"Trust a conceited, spoiled Slytherin to obsessively pursue something simply because it hasn't been offered to them an a platter," I discover myself sneering. As soon as my own voice reaches my ears, I strongly regret my unneeded enmity, but it is very much too late. I hear the young man drawing a sharp breath, and his nose wrinkles in fury.

Perhaps it is an odd refraction of the light, or just merely my own imagination, by I can swear his eyes suddenly glint red.

He approaches me, glowing with ire, and I feel his magic swirl around him like a shield of hatred, a tornado of acrimony.

_Voldemort. This cannot be good. Perhaps I should reconsider..._

_No._

_No!_

_I will not reconsider._

"Your new brand of blackmail then, Tom Riddle? 'Give yourself to me or I'll choose the path of darkness and destruction?', really now? A childish move, and a low blow, even coming from you," I spit out, unarguably irritated, and I move towards him as well, with a few strong and rapid steps, my magic flaring around me like a quiet menace. He does not move back; instead he simply glares at me, indecisively, before his anger finally subsides. Or at least -somewhat- subsides.

The bitterness behind his evident hurt is still visible to me, though, even after the muscles on his jaw come loose again.

"Have it your way,_ falconet_. But when you will be the one desperately trying to cross the distance between us, I will gladly remind you that it was you who decided to place it there," he declares calmly but with worrisome gravity, like a second Cassandra, his stare locked into mine, and he looks as elegant as he looks alarming. Swiftly, he turns around and leaves. He has a flair for the dramatic, and does tend to exaggerate, but that does not reassure me at all.

* * *

_Alright. I handled this wrong._

_But seriously, fuck him and his unbelievably delicate mental equilibrium! He takes insult at almost everything, and I'm tired of tiptoeing into this cage of sleeping monsters that is his mind!_

_Anyway._

_How do I fix this?_

"Hey," I exclaim as he walks out of the door, moving towards him fast, unsure of what to actually say, but certain of the need to not let this end like that. Abruptly he freezes, as if pensive, and then turns around to face me, his cool, breathtaking features inches from me. He examines me with an uncertain gaze, but seems to be willing to hear me out; now if only I knew what to say.

"I wanted to let you know... I came across a reference to the Elder Wand having actually consisted not of one, but of two, twin wands. I think it might be a lead on the whole Deathly Hallows and why I ended up in 1940 business," I eventually add, the factual texture of my voice unable to hide its tender undertones. I must have said the right thing, I immediately infer, for his detached mask falters a little, and he looks very pleased.

"Thanks for telling me this; I will look into it. I... appreciate the gesture," he states neutrally, his stare inscrutable. The slight softening of his face I do manage to interpret however: the young man finds my trusting him with something important to be an adequate peace offering. I let him walk, feeling a little less worried, and I watch achingly as his delicate frame grows distant.

_Giving you what you demand would be much easier than denying it from you, believe me, Riddle. I am doing this for you. Because one wrong step, ONE mistake, and I will eventually have to slay you all over again._

_I can't risk that._

_Not anymore; I care too much._


	42. Chapter 42

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I do own a ticket to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows pt2, however, and when I am not gazing at it longingly, I keep it safe under my pillow.

A/N: It was very nice to realise that a lot of readers had not forgotten of my little story, despite how long it had taken for me to update. I am very, very pleased. Squeaking, even.

And because people have been persistently asking about my personal problems, there you go: my mother was diagnosed with a very serious (incurable but thankfully slow) autoimmune disease, and since my father works in a different country, I suddenly have to look after her nearly 24/7. Which screws over my relationship, my studies, my work, and pretty much everything else. Happy now, readers? Did you really want to know? Meh...

To Dragonanzar: Yes, Riddle's internal monologues are becoming less purple and labyrinthine. It is because he is getting over his constant need to identify himself through his intellectual superiority; he is no longer trying to prove to himself obsessively just how special he is. Or at least not _as much as he used to... _It's done on purpose, and if you squint you'll notice that when Riddle is -angry-, he does start using slews of adjectives again.

To Monkey in a Jump Suit: Your entire review was a pleasure to read (and very motivational, too), but I will forever love you just for your comment on Animagi. Oh yes, I am also SO TIRED of wolves, ravens, snakes and cats. Seriously, out of the thousands of species and subspecies out there, does it always have to be the same two or three?

To WelcomeToTheAsylum, Rubedo Jr, and the other "familiar faces": Thank you for still following this story, I seriously feel fantastic when I realise that some of you have been with me for pretty much an entire year. I sincerely love you.

* * *

Chapter 42

Riddle's PoV

And so, since the day of our rather intense confrontation on the subject of my behaviour, I have been putting a truly great amount of effort into expressing nothing more and nothing less than perfect neutrality in the face of my dearest assistant professor; never have I, since that day, outwardly conveyed interest for more than the strict content of our, admittedly fascinating, lessons. It is not exactly anger that has been driving me into this novel type of behaviour, and it is not resentment, a misplaced desire for revenge, or even the naïve hope of thus luring him into pursuing me; it is rather the level-headed, rational part of my personality admitting that overstepping the clearly drawn boundaries is not to my best interests, at least not for the time being.

Consequently, I devote all my excess passion and energy into rigorous, disciplined, exhausting training, spending entire hours inside the Room of Requirement, my very own personalised training grounds, complete with dummies and obstacles of all kinds, and substantially improving on my wizarding skills at a most impressive rate.

With Harry Potter's precious assistance, I quickly come to master my Animagus form, and I also solidify my corporeal Patronus even further, acquire an entire armoury of offensive and defensive Light spells (in the field of the Dark Arts, there is very little even _he _can teach _me_), hone my dueling reflexes and improve my non-verbal casting.

Furthermore, I take the time to explore the Chamber of Secrets with meticulous reverence, and I sacrifice long hours to the translation of Parselwrit grimoires and other such concealed and unsung treasures of magical civilisation, with Nagini's most useful help ever available; and so I gradually learn more advanced spells of the Parselmagic branch, spells of healing, summoning and destruction.

My almost obsessively dedicated training does not escape Harry Potter's notice, of course, and he is swift to note my tremendous advancement, his exquisite, consuming eyes admiring and alarmed in equal parts.

"I did not think it possible for someone to fully grasp non-verbal casting so fast. That time, at the Chamber, I did notice you had a talent for it, but still... You must be training quite hard outside of our little lessons," he points out one day, his voice pleased, curious but also a little concerned, and I immediately nod, accepting the evident truth of his observation, a thin smirk of self-esteem playing on my lips and a sense of smug satisfaction spreading like a warm wave inside me.

"In a couple of years there will really be nothing I could possibly teach you! When I remember how pitifully misinformed and untrained I was at your age, how clueless and weak and simply incapable of the easiest spells..." he states, shaking his head, and despite the radiant smile of approval on his face, and the amicable, cordial expression worn, I can distinguish the enshrouded, obscured undercurrents of worry and even fright present, perhaps due to the link between our magical cores.

"It is quite the gamble, isn't it, Potter, what you have decided to do with me... Teaching me powerful Light spells and talents your timeline's Voldemort had not fully mastered, guiding me, and hoping that I will become a better person at a faster rate than I will become a more powerful wizard. And knowing that when the moment comes when I will be able to overpower you, the die will have been cast, and you will no longer have the option to kill me; you will simply have to watch me evolve, hoping you will not have failed and partaken in the creation of an even more powerful dictator; a Grey Lord," I reply in a manner eerily factual, pinning my icy, tearing glare onto his own eyes, and I create within my elegant, still face the semblance of an understanding smile.

And it is almost the first time that a drop of genuine, unadulterated fear for the future pours through our link, causing me to automatically regret my cruel, arrogant, hostile words.

"You have been fighting for your life for years. Even when my power will exceed yours, your reflexes and ridiculous amounts of experience will create a gap between us that will not be... that easy for me to bridge. Besides, you will not fail; I already care about you more than I'd ever thought I could," I subsequently add, the tone of my voice soft, gentle, tender, and I drop aside my mask for a moment, offering him the sight of a real smile,a smile fuelled by my growing albeit suppressed fondness for the man standing before me: a sincere, bittersweet curve of the lips, full of longing and sadness, for his eyes only.

He says nothing at first, letting a heavy, doleful silence hover above us uncomfortably, and he examines my features with a deep, inscrutable, illegible gaze, most probably confused by the quick alternating between two substantially different aspects of my unhealthy personality.

"You will be the death of me, Tom. That, or I will be the death of you," he mutters, and the quiet words flow out like a lament, shocking me with their tragic texture, the gut-clenching melancholy enveloping them: within them I read aching and affection, I read fear and repulsion, I read weariness and compassion, and they nearly bring tears to my eyes.

_I am sorry for being a monster, Harry, for a monster is what I am. If I could be anything else, I would, for you. I will try to change, I swear, and I _am _already trying; but there is a part of me, a sick, damaged part, that will always drive me to seek power, to seek influence, to seek revenge._

_And let us be honest with ourselves, my dear, it cannot simply be wished away._

My recurrent nightmares, vicious visions of decay, death, depravity and devastation, haunt my sleep ceaselessly still, but I have fortunately discovered a multitude of Occlumentic exercises that help me clear my mind when it is needed, and hush the horror within me, especially when my complex academic research requires undisturbed and undistracted peace of mind.

* * *

It is during an oppressively grey and rainy day, in the beginning of a cold and damp February, that Walburga Black, that criminally irksome banshee, decides to make her next move against me on the chessboard of Slytherin society, and despite having great confidence in my charisma and my crowd-manipulating talents, I cannot but acknowledge that her social prestige, blood status and political influence make of her a foe that is not to be taken too lightly.

Her attack is rather tasteful, I discover myself admitting with mild amusement; it takes place inside the Slytherin common room, discreet and elegant as is to be expected of a well-trained pureblood, and much unlike her unbecoming and unsuccessful insults a few months back.

It is as I return from an intense session of private training in the arts of duelling that I find her standing near the middle of the common room, her cunning eyes flickering to the side in pretence of indifference and her arms lightly crossed before her chest, a few more Slytherins standing interestedly behind her; I need no more than a few seconds to comprehend the situation, and, smirking inwardly, I prepare myself for the delicious entertainment.

"Oh, good evening, Riddle. You join us... later and later with each passing day, it seems. You seem a little... flustered, and perhaps even a little worn out. You do make us worry, you know," she exclaims as I enter, her voice betraying no particular emotion, but her sharp, nearly knifelike punctuation underlying her malicious implications quite clearly enough, while her eyebrows rise a little, in a vexing expression of mock concern.

The words serve as a clear and unclouded declaration of open war, and with an ever growing sense of amusement, I observe the fluid, shifting dynamics of Slytherin politics: Patroklus Lestrange and his friend Avery move to my side almost instantaneously and so do most of the lower year serpents, Abraxas Malfoy smirks greedily leaning towards me ever so slightly, Emeric Nott and his bothersome female friend place themselves behind Walburga, and a large portion of students move around indecisively, waiting to join the victor.

"Forgive me if my absence has been so unbearable to you. I have simply been honing my... hexes and spells." I answer sweetly but not without threat, while I lock my soulless, devouring glare into hers, comprehending full well that the 'you-like-me' card will not work against her twice and yet deciding to work with evasive and defensive manoeuvres until the perfect opportunity for a deadly strike arises.

"Oh, I see. It is just that some of us feel that... you do not want to spend time here, you know. As if you do not enjoy our company or indeed... belong here," comes her crafty retort, and the message between the lines is smoothly conveyed: '_You do not belong in Slytherin. No family, no status, no fortune. Your influence here is not welcome.' _her eyes spit at me poisonously, but once more, I bite back a delectable multitude of possible counter-retorts, and shield myself with ease, passivity and simplicity.

"A uniquely powerful, sentient artefact created by the very founders of this school placed me here. But I guess that, if you put it that way, I might have been... mistaken?" I question amicably, and show no signs of irritation or hostility, allowing my mouth to gradually form a soft, mocking smile; I openly dare her to use more firepower than these pitiful insinuations, to up the stakes, and, her dark stare hardening, she obligingly picks up the gauntlet.

"Well, I must admit that it refreshing to hear than some of us are already dedicatedly improving their... duelling abilities. Your training must be very... intense; you look rather depleted. You must be learning many new tricks. Is it assistant professor Potter you are training with, I wonder?" she murmurs venomously, her eyes narrowing considerably, and her unattractive, dry lips spreading into a feral smile; finally, I think to myself, she brings forth her real weapons, and at the sound of her grave, scandalous implication I can distinctly hear a few serpents draw sharp, eager breaths.

"Occasionally. Mostly, however, I train alone. As for the tricks I have learned... You will find some of them very fascinating, I believe," I offer my neutral response, and I most cautiously keep my features clean and clear of all information; no suggestive smirk or flaring of the nostrils, simply a naked, massively ambiguous statement for her to work on.

"Tom..! How... lewd," the pathetic, greedy, sly little witch chooses to reply, her lips parting in a appalling mockery of outrage and her face contorting into a mask of shock and disgust; a few witches, members of her elitist little clique, muffle their harebrained giggles, and I now allow myself to openly smirk, a frightening, sadistic expression surfacing onto my handsome face, for the time has come for me to finish this tiresome feud once and for all.

_Checkmate, Walburga. The scenery of Slytherin politics is about to change forever._

And even though my dearest green man would most probably not approve, I cannot help but feel a shiver of unadulterated pleasure as the fun part approaches, a thrill as intense as it is savage.

"Lewd? I don't understand what you mean. I see nothing lewd about ...this." I state with sudden force, my magic now flaring around me like an aura of dancing death as I bring my beloved wand out and non-verbally summon my Patronus; and thus I smile as the large (larger than ever before) silver beast embraces me protectively, majestic, graceful, pulchritudinous as much as dangerous, predatory and deadly, causing a ripple of absolute terror as well as irrepressible fascination within the common room.

The giant reptile turns its entrancing head towards Walburga, who now stands pale and petrified, her legs itching for her to retreat but her pride anchoring her to the ground, and throws a long, hard, slitted stare at the student, with eyes silvery and fathomless. Frantic whispering arises within the room, and more than a few of the silly worms that dare sully Salazar's legacy by calling themselves Slytherins move back in fear and astonishment; "_What -is- that?", "Morgana! He wouldn't attack her would he?" ,"I.. think.. it's a Patronus. They are not dangerous." ,"A solid, corporeal Patronus of that size..." ,"This is -amazing-", "Should have known better than to provoke Riddle..."._

"Now don't look so... dismayed, Walburga. Serpents are any real Slytherin's allies, as you surely know. And besides, this one is merely a defensive invocation, unlike my viper familiar, " I purr at her, the tone of my voice low, almost seductive, and unmistakably hoarse as I take a menacing step towards her general direction, causing the pitiful, worthless little kids behind her to scatter, intimidated by the potency of my magic and the threat written all over my avid glare.

"I can show you more of the... tricks I have learned recently, if you'd like me to," I murmur additionally, and with a swift, fluid and gracile flick of my wand I cause the beautiful reptile to slowly disintegrate, and bring my pallid, elongated fingers to my lips, smiling like a child who has indeed been rather naughty, surrounded by the glittering, swirling remains of the dissolved Patronus charm.

She stands there, powerless and muted, unwilling to protest and unable to counteract, and despite the evident resentment in her eyes, she seems to be unwillingly struck by awe and admiration.

"Didn't think so, either. Well, let me tell you something, miss Black, that you will certainly find useful in your attempts to understand the workings of this world. Magic does not care about my family name, my Gringotts vault, my political positions, and neither does it care about yours. Too long has Slytherin house wasted its resources in a senseless hunt of fame and galleons, but in the end, we will all be judged by magic, and magic alone."

A crowd gathers around me, sensing the immense importance of my declaration and somehow understanding just how wide the consequences of such a daring statement will be; they might be criminally stupid, but Slytherins have a sixth sense that allows them to _feel _it when something shifts in the very foundation of the wizarding social structure, and to seek to ally themselves to those who will rise from within the tumult.

"Light spells, Dark spells, neutral ones... Purity, corruption, crudeness, refinement. All these are simply names we choose to give to different facets of magic, because we do not understand it, and we seek to control, and compartmentalise it. There is nothing inherently Dark about Slytherin, nothing inherently Light about Gryffindor, nothing inherently powerful about purebloods, nothing inherently weak about muggleborns. These are only irrational predispositions found in our minds, carried on by ignorance and stupidity. Were are the traits that Salazar so valued? Our cunning, our resourcefulness, our desire for advancement, our ever restless spirit?"

"All that matters in the end, is that we prove ourselves worthy of the gift of magic, that we learn to treasure, comprehend and manipulate our gift, and that we allow our society as well as our abilities to mutate and evolve, free of boundaries, clichés and all else holding us back. Only then can we create a world good enough for us to live in. And not just us, Slytherins, but us, wizards and witches of all roots and backgrounds."

The words are causing quite a delicious, splendid commotion, I discover with immense satisfaction, feeling the intoxicating sensation of influence, of power; even Abraxas Malfoy has lost his knowing, smug smirk, somewhat outraged by my heretical opinions, but utterly defenceless against my eloquence and charisma, I note absently.

"And so while muggles invent, discover, create, evolve, we, resting reassured in our silly wand-waving, have barely noticed the flowing of the 20th century. Our society, conservative and still, is losing its flexibility, its adaptivity, and Darwin has proven only too well that a species that does not seek to ameliorate itself, that does not adapt, does not move forward, is doomed to find itself forever lost in the merciless sands of time. Is that what we want to be? The fossils of this world? A laughable, arrogant circus playing along while muggles are seeking to grasp the very weave of our universe, researching ceaselessly, experimenting, changing, rising?"

"We should be all ashamed of ourselves as wizards, for we have been bested by them, by the very mundane, short lived muggles we have spent half our lives mocking. They are inferior to us in many aspects, and yet they have realised something that we are still struggling with; to live is to change. Still waters are _dead waters. _Rid yourself of your bigotry, your fear, your rigid social roles. Only THEN, when your vision is finally clear, can you understand the nature of magic."

_And so, my final blow against Walburga Black is also my opening move against the entire pureblood status quo._

Of course, truth be told, I don't actually believe half of what I declare with such ardent, vivid passion, and I feel like nothing more than a charismatic actor, immersed in a sea of splendid theatrics.

_But it is the RIGHT thing to do. It is the RIGHT thing to say. It is what Potter would have wanted me to believe, to strive for. It is what I in fact _wish_ I could believe, myself, what I wish I could feel._

_And if I try hard enough, I might, one day, genuinely feel that way._

* * *

The effects of my skilfully inspirational speech become blindingly obvious already within the first twenty four hours, with instances of heated, fervent arguments between students on the subject of magic and its advancement within wizarding society, with incidents of violent quarrels about the importance of blood status, and most characteristically, with more than a few cases of young wizards and witches, many of which do not actually belong to Slytherin, approaching me shyly to state their support of my brave positions.

In fact, one of them, a lackadaisical and absent-minded Ravenclaw a few years my elder, manages to somehow surprise me, and even catch me slightly unprepared with his unexpected choice of words and his slightly disturbing, meaningful and knowing gaze, a gaze dreamy and unearthly.

"My name in Mithras Lovegood, and I offer you my allegiance," he tells me with astonishing unpretentiousness and ease, his light blue eyes staring as if at a place far, far away, and he offers me his hand as well as a light, good-hearted smile, that seems somewhat misplaced on his uncannily diaphanous, ghostly face; I take his hand graciously, but instantly conclude that he must carry a sizeable percentage of dryad blood.

"Thank you, but I do not seek anyone's allegiance. I desire no position of leadership. I merely desire change," I reply, my voice as friendly as possible, and therefore gentle and warm, as I let our eyes meet in an attempt of mutual understanding and exploration; I naturally do not manifest my piqued interest on the subject of his possibly non-human descent, but I can not help but feel affected by the bizarre, surreal way in which his distracted gaze seems to transcend matter.

"Mmm, that's right isn't it? But when the very establishment of this society will be challenged, the people will need someone to look up to. And it will not be your choice, for you cannot deny your own power, nor your own charisma. You might try to, since you know now that power corrupts, and yet you cannot simply hop off the thread of your fate. But do not be afraid; power corrupts only if made a goal in itself, and not when used as a tool to achieve things beautiful and just," he mumbles somewhat incoherently, as if lost in thought, and despite the self-evident weirdness of his response, I get the feeling that he is not simply muttering trivial nonsense, and I thus weigh his odd but profound words carefully, storing them inside my complex but well-organised mind for future reference.

"I will not forget that," I pronounce earnestly as well as adamantly, inexplicably sensing that my acceptance of his unusual piece of advice has more meaning than I can yet decipher; and so he smiles at me heartily and with surreal sweetness, as if overwhelmed with glee at the sound of my answer, and he walks away with a slight, unexpected swagger.

* * *

Dumbledore's PoV

"...And that is when it occurred to me. Tom and I both descend from the Peverell brothers, and if the Peverells did indeed manifest residual magic inherited through a signature blending ritual in their distant genetic past, it would make sense that both Tom and I would have inherited that from there! Furthermore, the possibility of twin Elder Wands explains quite neatly why _I _didn't become Master of Death at any point; I simply did not own the final Hallow," he explains rather enthusiastically, and his grin is far too goofy for a serious conversation on the heirlooms of Death itself. Not that I mind, really; seriousness is not exactly my forte either, especially not after having ingested large quantities of strong, dark tea.

Fulfilling my role as a mentor and as a wise old wizard in the most adequate way I can manage, I scratch my beard and emit the obligatory humming sound of pensiveness. Mind you, his theory is genuinely interesting, and it does make a lot of sense.

"Your theory is most interesting, my boy, and it does make a lot of sense," I consequently let him know, and the sweet, humble kid instantly blushes at the simple compliment; ah, the modesty of youth, I think to myself affectionately. I then proceed to munching a few chocolate chip cookies, which do tend to aid my intellectual ability with their precious mountains of glucose.

"Why is it, however, that you so fervently wish to discover and acquire the Hallows, if you hold no fear of death? It concerns me." I add, furrowing my brows disapprovingly. Of course, I am not one to talk, having searched for the Hallows myself during my foolish youth, swayed by promises of endless power for the greater good. But Harry... He should not have to make the same mistakes. They have a heavy price to pay.

"I don't want to be immortal, nor do I seek their power. I just... I want to find that plane of existence, that limbo, and discover the reason I am here, ask you or whoever takes your form, and get an answer, at last. Understand me please, I _need_ to know why I was sent here, Albus! I need to know I am not making a mistake. I just..." he chews out nervously, scratching the back of his head with a distinct lack of self-assurance. Compassionately, I push a cookie towards him using the tip of my finger.

Well, I can understand his reasoning I guess; it most definitely makes sense for him to desire proof that he is doing the right thing, that this is indeed the mission he is meant to be fulfilling; it must really not be easy at all, trying to handle that handsome and devilishly sly boy. Gellert was not nearly as bad, and I still wasted decades before I could persuade him out of his nasty, manslaughtering ways, and I required some outside help, as well.

"Harry, my boy... You have decided to save this child from the dark path ahead of him. You took a leap of faith, and I admire you for it. Even when hardships arise, do not doubt yourself; for it does not matter why you were originally sent into our timeline. What matters is what you do with the chance given to you." I affirm using that special whispery voice of infinite wisdom that I save for such occasions, knowing that it tends to reassure and comfort people rather successfully.

He smiles at me sadly, and I can immediately tell he has not been convinced. Perhaps more tea is needed.

"Thank you Albus. But I still need to find whoever sent me here, and ask them. I will feel lost and restless until I do," he claims, a curt and rather terse reply, his green eyes flashing with intensity. Bravery bordering on stupidity is the very essence of being a Gryffindor, and I am certain Godric would be most proud of his stubborn little descendent. I am proud of him, myself, even if he frustrates me a little with his blindingly evident hero complex; he is a good kid, however, with a strong, pure heart and a good head on his shoulders.

"I will assist you as best as I can, then. And so will Gellert. You have my full trust, Harry. Just don't let the Hallows fall into the wrong hands," I conclude our conversation, and I beam a kind smile at him, subsequently sipping a some more tea with new-found joy. It is his decision after all, and I can only help him walk down the path he chooses, I think to myself resignedly; I have faced my Dark Lord, and it is now time for him to face his. He thanks me profusely and leaves, offering me a cute and polite bow before he reaches the door.

Now alone with the exception of my beloved albeit occasionally pesky bird, and biting absent-mindedly into the last chocolate chip cookie, I search through my ridiculously huge collection of books.

I am sure I can find something here about signature-blending, or at least a clue that would point to the existence of more than one Elder Wand. When the amount of tomes in one's collection tends towards infinity, one should theoretically be able to find just about anything there, right? After all, that poor boy does need all the help he can get, with that odd mess he has gotten himself into.

_Magical twins, huh? Cross-generational effects of signature-blending... And a Horcrux link, too, plus some unusual time-travelling. Sounds like a recipe for a most exciting adventure._

Now, should I break the news to Gellert..?. After having spent hours of passionate argumentation in order to finally convince him to give up his quest for the Hallows, informing him that we will, after all, be going after these bloody artefacts, might make his left eye twitch in that rather menacing way that does not make me feel too comfortable.

* * *

Potter's PoV

During that Monday's Transfiguration lesson, when Riddle walks into the unused classroom quietly and with his signature aura of grace, I cannot help but immediately pose the question that has been itching me for the past two days. Before he can even seat himself properly, I walk towards him with resolution, brows knit together.

"What _did_ you do during the weekend?" I question with unhidden curiosity and a few drops of juistified concern, and he reacts be lifting his thin, elegant eyebrows quizzically, as if he does not understand what I could be possibly referring to. "Don't play that game with me, Tom. The hallways are brimming with zealous conversations on blood purity and social change, house Slytherin has torn itself in two pieces, a massive number of students from all houses and years randomly approach you and congratulate you, and Walburga Black hasn't shown up for breakfast at all," I continue, pushing a little, since I am sincerely eager to find out what sort of commotion he has been causing again, and what his motivation is.

He lifts his breathtaking, otherworldly eyes into mine, and his lips break into a pleased smile, charming and somewhat spicy.

"I think I might have instigated an uprising against the pureblood status quo," he states in a manner frustratingly blasé, and his smile, slightly crooked and wholly piquant, widens as he pushes back a small curl of hair from the side of his forehead. He seems terribly proud of himself, I note and roll my eyes. And yet, I cannot help but feel a wave of affection for him flooding my admittedly defenceless chest.

"Accidently, I suppose."

"Indeed. I was simply trying to vex miss Black sufficiently for her to stop disgusting me with her petty little social attacks, and all of a sudden, I discovered myself the valiant defender of muggles and muggleborns. I am not actually sure how that happened, really," he enunciates matter-of-factly, his beautiful, pale face neutral as usual, but I know him too well to miss the discreet smugness vibrating in his voice.

"That's very odd. Last time I checked, you still genuinely despised muggles and their progeny. I don't think it is a very good idea for you to spend such a large portion of your life fooling and manipulating people, even if the idea of taking down the pureblood lobby sounds quite appealing to me, which you of course knew," I tell him, my tone somewhat accusing, and I watch as his eyes harden a little; he does not look the slightest bit surprised at my reaction, however, and I thus infer he must have known I would approve of the changes he is trying to bring about, but not of his methods and his blatant hypocrisy.

"I don't want you to pretend to be someone you are not, Tom. You will end up resenting me that way," I add softly, and I put my hands onto his angular, thin shoulders with manifest fondness. Our eyes meet once again, and the marginally hesitant, pensive and nearly shy expression on his face makes my heart race unexpectedly, and most unwillingly.

"I am not doing this... _only_ for you. I theoretically know it is the right thing to do, actually," he mutters, his tone bittersweet and his gaze turning away from mine. "You are right, of course, in that I do not genuinely believe what I have found myself preaching. But I might, eventually, get over my inappropriately cruel feelings towards muggles."

"I see what you are trying to do, Riddle, and I understand it. You are meant for great things, and pretending to be a homely, docile wizard, satisfied with his dull office job, will never be enough for you. I appreciate that you try to channel your charisma and ambition into something _good,_" I begin, and at these words his expression softens and, despite still being quite blank and rather illegible, I realise that he needed to hear this from me.

"On the other hand, rehearsing the lyrics won't necessarily make you able to hear the music," I conclude gravely, and he almost winces at my statement, even though, once more, he keeps himself amazingly contained and controlled, much like a mannequin.

He does not open his lips at all, strangely enough; he simply stares at me, the cool, crystalline ponds facing me with silent and unforgiving vividness. His stare is defiant, and he conveys his message well. _So what is _your_ suggestion, then, assistant professor? _I decide to reply as straightforwardly and honestly as I would have had he actually posed his question with words.

"I think that I know what will help you understand and manage effectively your spite towards muggles," I tell him, and immediately he narrows his eyes in suspicion.

"I think you need to face your fathers. Your biological father, as well as your adoptive father. Listen to what they have to say, Tom. Perhaps you will find yourself surprised," I suggest, bracing myself for the possibility of a very negative reaction; and indeed, I immediately feel the darkest, most corrupted parts of his magical aura flare up, a tsunami of anger pouring through our link.

"**NO,**" he yells with ire and resolve, his muscles all clenching and tensing and contorting as if he's been assaulted, and he gets up abruptly, his eyes shining with hatred. Their sudden coldness and their abysmal abhorrence do not leave me unaffected, even though I'd found it possible he would respond that way. It truly hurts me to see him like that, to witness his trauma rising to the surface, his wounds and his odium; so heart-breakingly stunning, and yet so deeply damaged.

"No," he repeats, so coolly that I feel the temperature of this damned classroom dropping by a few degrees, and he emanates murderous intent so strongly that I find it difficult concealing my discomfort.

_He is not going to make this easy for me, but it _has_ to be done._

_Grit your teeth Harry, no one said this would be a trip to the park._

"Yes, Riddle. This time, I have to ask you to do as I say," I tell him with unfaltering strictness and firm decisiveness, and yet I cannot bring myself to meet his eyes, afraid of the look of sheer loathing I will find there.


	43. Chapter 43

Disclaimer: I don't own Tom Riddle. You know you owns Tom Riddle? Flayu owns Tom Riddle. Just google "Flayu Riddle sock"; go ahead, right now. Right? She clearly does own him. What? No. I'm not salivating. It's my lip-gloss.

A/N: I am still alive, surprisingly enough; even though real life seems to be trying to make it otherwise. And I will definitely not leave you readers hanging. I will finish what I've started. On another note, my mother started chemo, even though what she has is not related to cancer (it's autoimmune); apparently it is meant to destroy her immune system at a faster rate than cortisone would, so that she may have a chance. We'll see. Anyway. HUGE chapter ahead. Be warned.

To NougatEvolution: Although I am not glad you are going through something similar (I wouldn't wish it upon anyone), I -am- grateful for your telling me so. Makes me feel better, somehow. Well, lets be strong. If you need anything, pm me, honestly; we're kinda friends by now, I guess.

To MaggiSakura: I know the story is very heavy (far from the general lightness of some of the canon books), and I know that the romance is excruciatingly slow. Both of these characteristics are a personal choice; that's just my cup of tea. Yes, it's a kind of unorthodox cup of tea, but hey... Thanks for the well-founded criticism, though. I appreciate.

To Moth Gypsy: This chapter is mostly about the destruction of Tom's misconceptions, so I am afraid you won't get too much of Potter's inner struggles. Next chapter on the other hand...

To Fleur Princesse: If you have created fanart, it's a shame not to share it! Especially Tom fanart. Mmmmm, Tom...

To Aetaso: Good question. It will be answered in 3-4 chapters. ;)

* * *

Chapter 43

Potter's PoV

"No. This I won't do," he mutters venomously but with a frighteningly resolved dispassion, seemingly unaffected by my attempt to be forceful and intimidatingly convincing. His magic is flaring quite badly, crackling in the air around him like a brewing storm, and I ready myself for a possible duel. His face is frozen into a mask of detached hatred, and when I eventually allow my eyes to meet his, I inwardly wince at their piercing hostility. My scar tingles, too, possibly because of all the dark emotions pouring through our magical link.

It's almost physically painful to me when he looks at me that way, I admit to myself, all while resenting my own ridiculous attachment to the boy, which is clearly making my life harder.

And yet, I am well-aware that both his eerily flawless composure and his loathing are but expressions of his thinly veiled panic. I know him well enough by now to be able to look past the pits of his outwardly expressed malevolence and ire, and into the pools of denial and fear that lie beneath. But his hand is still slowly reaching for his wand, and I know that I must act before we inevitably resort to violence; it would hurt us both on too many levels.

"Why? What is it that scares you so? Your own hatred?" I therefore ask as casually as possible given the emotionally tense circumstances. And of course, as soon as I dare suggest he might be afraid, more anger flashes behind his cold glare. However, to great my surprise, he does not reflexively deny it; he stares at me silently instead, and soon, to my even greater surprise, now bordering onto astonishment, the wrath within his blue orbs seem to slowly subside. Ah, an inner struggle, I recognise easily; our daily routine couldn't possible be complete without one of those.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment that seems to draw out into time, they wage a mute war that I don't fully comprehend. A war of silent messages. Slowly, the certainty, the finality in my gaze appears to overpower the uncertainty and fear in his, and even though he pushes all his anger out to the front, all his loathing, I can feel him crumbling.

_You must understand... You must trust me. Please. If I could make it any easier for you, I would. I care for you so much, Riddle. You don't even know. But if this issue is not resolved, we cannot move forward. I can see that now. And I believe in you. I will never, ever let you fall. _That is what my eyes say.

_I'd do so many things for you, you know. But this, I can't. I just can't. Please, don't ask me to do this; I am not ready, I'm not strong enough. It will be a disaster. I'll soil my hands with blood, and then you won't forgive me. And I won't forgive you. Is this what you want? _This is what his eyes say.

Finally, the sharp angles of his face soften a little, and his pale hand stops creeping hesitantly towards the wand holster. He looks somewhat tired.

"My adoptive father I could do, perhaps, in time. But my biological father... There is no one I want to kill more, Potter. And there is no way I could possibly manage to restrain such an overwhelming desire. It will destroy everything we've worked for," he states almost serenely, withholding his vexation with admirable success, and I find myself completely and utterly befuddled be the sudden shift in his behaviour. Only he can move so fluidly hop from murderous intent at one moment, to civilised conversation on the next.

Nevertheless, I offer him a wide, warm smile; I can tell he's putting an extraordinary amount of effort into keeping himself in line, and frankly, I'd been expecting him to start throwing Unforgivables at me at this point. Furthermore, I readily accept that he is making a fine point, so terribly convincing that I almost reconsider my decision. Almost. I don't, however, because despite his faultless argument, he is wrong.

"Perhaps. But I believe we have done all we possibly could in the circumstances given, Tom. The rest of the road is unfortunately blocked by the consuming, ever-present hatred for your fathers, and you will never be able to move forward unless you manage to move past that very obstacle. You will never be more ready than you are now," I explain to him softly, tenderly, and even as I mouth the words, I feel my heart ache at the fact I am forcing him to do something against his will; a necessary evil, I convince myself to mask the pain.

He gazes over me coolly, examiningly, weighing my words; his face now holds more anguish than it holds ire, and suddenly I want nothing more but to take him into my arms and kiss every inch of him, mumbling silly reassurances and words of affection. Merlin curse me.

"I can't do this," he says, and even though his voice tries to sound factual and dry, the statement comes across as oddly desperate, almost a wail, a lament. He suddenly looks so fragile and so scared underneath the layers of his monstrosity, that I experience yet another flood of affection for the damaged boy, as well as a profound, wrenching sadness. I really, really, really don't want to have to do this to him. And yet, I know I must.

"Like you can't care for other people?" I challenge him, and although he seems angered by my argument at first, certainly biting back some poisonous retort, his expression melts into resigned softness. There's a surge of tenderness in his eyes all of a sudden, a silent admission of his emotions towards me, a sadness that comes out to meet mine, and even though he still clearly disapproves of my decision, he shows no intention of resisting anymore.

"You're tapping at the very core of Voldemort, you know; his biological father was his first real, direct kill, was it not? I certainly hope you know what you are doing, Potter, because I don't want to lose myself to him, and I feel terribly unready for this battle," he simply articulates in a rather weary fashion, a last complaint, silver-tongued as always, but I can already tell he has accepted the inevitability of this development. He is a rational being, after all.

"I know, Riddle. And it is only logical that you would be afraid of losing control. However, I think you underestimate your own strength of character, as well as my intimate knowledge of Voldemort's mind."

He says nothing, but his jaw remains clenched.

* * *

A few minutes later, we stand on the pavement of a muggle neighbourhood, facing the rather small but pleasant house of Riddle's adoptive father. I turn my head towards the beautiful boy, and he looks as intensely disgusted and repulsed as I would have expected him to be, plus a bit more; nevertheless, his mouth remains stubbornly shut. A nice breeze is blowing, and the enjoyable smell of freshly cut grass fills my nostrils; and yet, I cannot help but feel disquieted by the terrible, palpable aversion he seems to be soaked in.

"You're wrong about him, you know. I'll admit that he's not that intelligent. And he's terribly plain. He's ignorant of the wizarding world, and rather shabby at raising a child. But he's not a bad person. He's doing his best. It is you who perceives his feeble attempts at establishing a bond with you as an aggression." I declare suddenly, and I try to throw an accusing glare at the young Slytherin, if only to take his mind of his hatred for these muggle surroundings.

His silence is beginning to unnerve me, and even worry me, but since he chooses not to reply, I choose not to insist. It's not the best moment to be picking on him, really.

_James Hornby _reads the bell, and I move forward to press it, trying my very best to ignore the ever growing revulsion emanating almost tangibly from the boy, and the throbbing sadness within my own heart, inwardly murmuring endless apologies for doing this. Yes, I do feel quite guilty. Even though out of the two encounters, it will certainly be the easier one.

The chubby, balding man opens the door only seconds later, and at the sight of me, his face acquires a warm, polite smile, welcoming and genuine, but he also appears understandably concerned. The light blue colour of his shirt is unpleasant.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Nice to see you again. I do hope that Tom hasn't..." he begins, but his voice fades as he notices the young student standing a few feet behind him, staring at him cruelly. "Tom? Oh dear. You haven't being expelled, have you?" the man then mumbles, and his round face turns even more worried as his eyes meet the hateful glare of his adopted son.

"Oh no, nothing like that, Mr. Hornby. I simply believe that it to Tom's best interest if you two finally have an honest talk with one another," I quickly interject, as Tom seems to be about to say something rather unkind, and I really do not wish for this to turn into a malignant confrontation just yet. Mr. Hornby looks mildly confused, as if he does not quite understand what this is all about, and his dark, weary eyes fall onto me, and then Tom, and then me again, before he finally raises an eyebrow questioningly and walks back into the house, his body language silently inviting us in. I swiftly follow the man into the house, only to realise that Tom isn't actually following; and so I immediately turn around, tilting my head ever so slightly towards the unmoving young man, pinning a gentle but demanding stare onto him.

Ultimately, pressing his lips into a bitter mockery of a smile, he grudgingly follows.

"Have a seat. Mr. Potter, Tom, shall I get you a drink?" the middle-aged man mumbles distractedly, stealing concerned glances in his son's direction and looking oddly nervous; in fact, he appears to be so utterly disoriented at our sudden visit, that I discover myself feeling terribly sorry for him. "Ah, no, no need. We're fine." I smoothly respond for Tom and I both, knowing full well that the boy does not intend to grace the muggle with an answer, and I sit myself down, trying to keep my face as pleasant as possible.

"I hope you don't mind my snake, _father_. She desires some fresh air, for my robes are too warm for her at times," the terrifyingly attractive boy then declares, breaking the uneasy silence, and even though he speaks suavely and with impeccable manners, I can tell he is trying to make his adoptive father as uncomfortable as possible. There is no other reason for him to ask to bring Nagini out, for I am certain she is as comfortable as ever, snuggled against his skin.

He makes "father" sound like a terrible insult, too.

"You have a snake now, huh? I.. uh... alright. It's not a dangerous snake, is it?" the man answers a little shakily, his face paling visibly, and he glances at me queasily, pleading for my interference.

"Ah, do not worry about it, Mr. Hornby. Familiars are not dangerous at all; they are used to coexisting with humans. They will only ever become hostile if the life of their owner is at the stake. I should also let you know that it is really not uncommon for wizards to acquire a familiar, as they grow; cats, snakes, owls... In fact, it is believed that it helps young wizards better grasp the concepts of responsibility, sharing, cooperation and dedication. It seen, perhaps, as a rite of passage into adulthood; a journey of coexistence," I helpfully supply, admiring myself for lying so skilfully, and for failing to note that familiars can be trained to kill at command, especially if they are predators by nature.

Like Nagini, for example, I contemplate in recollection of a certain Snape's demise.

The man seems to be reassured, and he even smiles as I mention the wonders familiars do for the characters of young wizards. With the corner of my eye, I catch Tom Riddle's expression, and do not fail to notice the sly, malevolent and very much amused smirk adorning his face. I feel myself becoming increasingly irritated, and unwilling to let this situation become some kind of gag; I cross my fingers, clear my throat, and decide to take control while I still can.

"So, Mr. Hornby... If you don't mind, I'd like you to explain to Tom over here why you love him. I've discovered that he seems to bear a lot of misconceptions on that subject, and they are affecting him adversely," I tell the meaty man, cutting to the chase mercilessly, and I feel guilty pleasure as I witness the man's eyebrows rocket beyond his hairline. Tom, too, seems to be shocked by my bluntness and hurry, and he throws an uneasy look towards the door, probably experiencing an intense desire to flee.

Our eyes meet, and this time I do not attempt to look stern or demanding, which goes against my nature anyway; instead, I aim for gentle and reassuring, without nevertheless managing to convince the boy, whose pools of frigid blue only seem to harden.

_What the hell are you playing at?_ These mesmerising eyes snarl at me, but I remain stoic and keep my composure, for if I succeed with this, the next encounter, the crucial one, will be a lot easier for both of us, and this is all that matters.

"I... uh... Tom, I know our relationship has been very difficult and... God, I don't even want to know what you've told your teacher here about me, with him deciding to come over here and all... But really, you must realise that I love you, right? I am sure you think I am terribly stupid, and a horrible father, and ignorant, and annoying, but please don't tell me you don't know that I love you? You're my son!" the man stutters nervously, and his face is turned towards the young, graceful, unemotional boy, his fat features distorted and pleading; and yet his fumbled words seem to be in vain, and the boy shows nothing but contempt, oozing out of his features and disfiguring his exquisite physique.

Even though I am tempted to interfere, I choose to hold my tongue. They both have things they need to say to one another, and I am not meant to be putting words into their mouths. I am merely supposed to make sure the dramatic culmination is not of the _Avada Kedavra_ sort, I think to myself rather bitterly.

However, the longer Tom remains indifferent and stolid, the more nervous I become, for I know that Tom's coldness, this empty void inside his soul, is the worst; more dangerous than his ire, sharper than his hatred, deeper than his anguish. Finally, the boy snorts derisively towards the man, and I breathe out in relief. Better a reaction, any reaction, than the frightening, inhuman frostiness of his, that seems to slice right through my chest even after all the horrors I have seen, and all the blood, and all the death.

"There's no point in this, I'm afraid, Mr. Potter. I am not sure why you decided to... initiate this... strange meeting, but I have come to accept that my relationship with my son is not going get any better. I do appreciate what you are trying to do for him, but he won't let you. He doesn't need any help; believe, I've tried for years. So if you are so keen on helping children with problems, I am sure there are many more children out there, who would both happy and grateful to have someone who cares about them. Do not waste your time on this boy, as I've wasted mine," the man then says, his voice cracking with bitterness and resentment, but also weariness, and surrender.

"Stop wasting my time on Tom? Oh, but it is not as simple. I am sure there were many other orphans out there for _you_ to adopt, that would be both happy and grateful to have a good meal, a house, a parent. But you didn't abandon Tom, even as he offered nothing of all the things you sought, and you did not replace him," I remark, my face adorned with a bittersweet smile as I meet the weathered, dark eyes of the man before me.

"How could I? He's the one I _chose_! I love him."

"Exactly."

Understanding flashes behind Mr. Hornby's gaze, and he offers me an exhausted albeit conspiratory smile, as if we are suddenly accomplices accused of some unforgivable crime; I steal a sideways glimpse of Tom, as well, but I am not sure whether he looks stunned or appalled.

"The one you chose, _father_? You chose at random. Or perhaps you chose the one that looked pretty. Whatever you did, you knew nothing of me, and still know nothing of me. So don't bring up matters of choice," the previously mute boy suddenly erupts, his words spat viciously and with virulent wrath, and yet his voice low, clear and even; I notice his delicate fist is so tightly clenched that all blood has flown away, leaving it as white as paper, and his eyes are blazing with icy fire.

"You're wrong! I chose you for a hundred reasons, and no matter how hard you are trying to make me regret it, I do not seek to undo my choice! I chose you because you were observant; your eyes never stayed too much on one place, but instead they hopped around, eager to notice and understand. I chose you because you were intelligent; you were only six, and yet you had heaps of books on your bed-stand, only few of which were children's books. I chose you because you had dignity! All the children there, begging, pleading to be taken away... But you were there, looking the best you could in your tattered clothes, asking for nothing. I chose you because, while the nursemaids painted you as an aggressive loner, what I read into it was that you were self-sufficient and independent. You had a strength in your eyes... I knew you were destined for great things, and I was sure that one day I'd be proud to call myself your father!"

"I chose my child, on that day. Someone I'd give everything to, and expect nothing in return. So believe me when I say that it was not a random choice," the man finishes, his face now red and swollen, and I feel quite astonished at the passion awakening behind his defeated features, and the sudden eloquence of his speech, so different from his previous stammering; even I had not expected him to pour out something so desperately loving. I am, in fact, somewhat moved.

Tom does not seem to be the slightest bit touched, however, and even though the slight parting of his lips betrays his surprise, his glare remains hard and unyielding.

"Keep your fairytales to yourself, old man. I am old enough to know the truth. And the truth is that with your wife dead, you were but a pathetic little man, alone in an empty house, too cowardly and too unattractive to seek another woman, too weak to take control of your own life. So what best than to fill your own emptiness with a child? Pitiful little creatures, that will love you unconditionally, believe your every word, behave as if the sun shines out of your every orifice. Too bad you chose the wrong one, _father,_" Tom Riddle barks with surprising force, his perfect collectedness and unflappability cracking beneath the strength of his rage; his cheeks are flushes now, and his neck is tense with pulsing veins.

"So what if I was lonely? What if I was weak? I never claimed to be selfless! I did want to experience the joys of fatherhood, yes, I wanted the happiness a child would bring into my life. Is that a sin? But I did my very best! I gave you all I could possibly give you! I worked harder than ever before, just to make sure that you could always have what you desired. I provided you with French lessons, German lessons, books, and later quills, grimoires, cauldrons... I gave you all my affection, even though I got nothing but spite in return. And when you were accused of poisoning the neighbour's dog or frightening the other children, I always defended you, even lied for you! Tell me Tom, how could I have done any better? What did I do wrong to make you hate me so?" the man laments, and there is a fire in his eyes that I wouldn't have expected; still, there is nothing but ire on Tom's face, and his eyes remain as merciless as always.

"You could have refrained from inviting me to sleep in your bed, for example," the statuesque boy spews icily, his self-control partially regained, and I can see Mr. Hornby's eyes widen with evident shock and confusion.

"You had nightmares. Tom! You thrashed around in your sleep every night, moaning in pain, crying, often waking up covered in bruises! What was I to do, as a father? I tried to be close to you, look after you, protect you; no matter how you treated me, I couldn't let you suffer! I was willing to stay up all night besides you, if you'd let me. Why is it so hard for you to accept that someone could want to be a parent without some hidden agenda? And that parenthood, no matter the motives that take you there, is, in itself, selfless?" the man whines.

"Because it isn't! No one ever gives without expecting to take something in return. There's nothing selfless about parenthood. If there was, there would be no orphanages full of abandoned children, would there? If there was, I wouldn't have been there in the first place, would I? " Tom observes, his weak sarcasm only barely covering the startling grief in his voice, and his eyes no longer hold anger, or hatred; they hold the accusing distress of an abandoned child.

The man's eyes soften, flooded with affection, and his lip quivers.

"My boy... I do not know why your real father fled from you, although I am certain there must have been a reason. But I beg of you, don't blame me for it. I am not him, and you must not hate me for whatever ways in which he might have wronged you. I know that you are hurt, and damaged, and incapable of loving me, and I can accept that. I only ask you to believe that -I- am not. You are my son. I love you. My only wish if that would will acknowledge that," he murmurs, and, abruptly, he gets up and moves towards the boy, pinning his sad eyes on him and placing his plump hands on Tom's shoulders.

The young student cringes violently at the undesired physical contact, but he does not retreat. He stares back, pensively, his face betraying none of his thoughts.

"You will get nothing in return," he finally utters, coolly, enunciating every word with hostile clarity and appearing to be almost disgusted with himself. And yet, both his adoptive father and I cannot hold back a pair of soft smiles, for we know that this is the closest to_ acceptance_ one can get from Riddle. "We should go." he adds matter-of-factly, and before I can even begin to formulate an answer, he walks swiftly to the door and, with a fluid, graceful movement, he pushes it open.

* * *

Once we are outside again and walking down the pavement, I feel Riddle's sharp blue eyes scrutinising me, unsure and questioning, if not nervous, and I find myself surprised; what on earth could someone like him be possibly nervous about? I'd understand him being generally confused and uncertain about the nature and meaning of his interaction with his adopted father, for this must be all strange and new to him, but I certainly do not comprehend the strange, speculative glances he if throwing my way.

"You implied you love me, back there," he suddenly blurts out, and it comes as something halfway between an inquiry and an accusation.

_Yes, I did, didn't I? Shit._

I immediately feel my heart thumbing violently inside my chest, as I inwardly recite a long chain of swearwords; his left eyebrow is raised, demanding some kind of answer, and I find myself on the verge of panic.

_Ok, shit. This is not the time to behave like a fucking teenager. I'll just have to smoothly admit that I love him, in the purest, most selflessly Gryffindor sense of the word, and any romantic implication need never be brought up._

_What if that registers as yet another romantic rejection, though? Merlin, he will be pissed again._

_Can I get away with just smiling cryptically?_

_Fuck, today is important. I need to keep the upper hand. This is not the right time for all this madness, no, no, no, it's certainly not._

I open my mouth to say something, but all I can think about is him, reaching up to capture my lips on a snowy day, his face perfect, his eyes bottomless and entrapping, his hair slightly tousled, and and oh Morgana, I hate myself for my weakness, for I am a grown man, a war-weathered man, a man with a mission, and I can't afford a single slip, not a single mistake.

_Get a grip, Harry. This is not the fucking moment._

"It's alright, don't look so horrified. I know why you said it, you don't need to give me an excuse. Hornby was doubting the sincerity of the motives behind your involvement. So you had to prove yourself trustworthy, to make him feel at ease, to create a sense of companionship between the two of you, as to facilitate the process of his expressing his emotions. A bond of mutual understanding to help him feel at ease. It was well-played," he then adds, his lips forming a playful smirk, and for split second I wonder if he is making fun of me; but he is not, because I know he is comfortably paranoid enough to actually think I had such a Machiavellic plan in mind when I implied my love for him.

Well, I did improvise with all that inspirational crap about the benevolent effects of acquiring a familiar, so perhaps his believing the rest the conversation was also a ploy, a part of my caring, compassionate, Lupin-like teacher persona, is not too terribly far-fetched; now if only I could bring myself to agree with him, and use this unexpected opportunity to get out of this prickly situation...

But I simply can't bring myself to nod. I merely stare at him gravely, feeling like a miserable idiot, a complete dunce, a pitiful caricature of the professor from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, and my thoughts must be written all over my face, for his smirk vanishes at once.

On his achingly beautiful features shock, mistrust, pleasure, panic, fear, affection, uncertainty, all parade one after the other in quick succession, and his nostrils flare, his mouth snow lightly open, as if a gust of wind has just blown over him. A drop of smug satisfaction isn't missing, either. Damn him.

Wisely, he chooses not to poke around the thorny subject any longer, but I do discern the ghost of a blush spreading on his cheeks, as he much too hurriedly averts his gaze from me, his breath quickening a little. Now more than ever, I fervently wish for the ability look into his thoughts without the use of Legillimency; I'd give a leg and an arm to know what is doing through his disturbed, brilliant, beautiful mind.

"Are you ready to visit Tom Riddle Sr.?" I ask, changing the subject not so discreetly by bringing up an equally thorny subject, that is sure to distract the boy bringing his reflexive hatred and repulsion to the surface. He lowers his eyes to the ground, thoughtful and unsure, and then his mouth twists into a grimace of odious disgust; when he pins them back into mine, I find them alarmingly frigid and choke-full of killer intent.

"I'll... I'll kill him on sight. This is a bad idea, Harry," he mutters spitefully, and his entire visage becomes distorted with tension, his jaw clenched, and his use of my given name in addition to his sudden physical hostility throw me off a little.

"You won't. I trust you," I reply, but even as I mouth my answer, I realise just how weak it is.

"And what if your trust is misplaced? What then? What when he is lying lifeless at my feet, soaked in blood? Will you turn me in, will you be able to? Or will you cover me and go against everything you've ever stood for? And what of me? What when my soul is ripped by the savage forces of intentional murder? Who will I be then? And will you... still want me?" he whispers darkly, the blackest segments of his magic reaching out for me defiantly, seductively, and that tiniest glimmer of red in his eyes is enough to trouble me in a manner most profound.

_But I have to stay in control. I'm stronger than Voldemort. This is the fight for Riddle's soul, and I will lose to nothing, and no one._

"My trust is not misplaced. I've made many mistakes in my life, Riddle. But never have I misplaced my trust. This is the one thing I have always been good at," I state with unfaltering resolve and unshakeable finality, mustering all my strength and composure; my words ring true and reassuring, and they give me the determination I require to extend my hand towards him.

_Let's go. No more stalling._

The darkness in his eyes regresses when my hand approaches him, and it is replaced by a look of pure terror, a renewed urge to flee; he does not feel ready for this, I can tell, but knowing that I will not change my mind, he has no choice but to take my hand.

He holds it tighter than he's ever done before, and I am not sure whether he is holding onto me desperately, or trying to punish me instead; probably both.

We apparate.

* * *

Dumbledore's PoV

"So, vhat you're basically saying is zhat after making me promise some dozens of times I vould not go after ze Hallows no matter how much it means to me, and how close I am to finding zhem, you now vant me to help your little protégé go after ze very same Hallows the evilness of which you vere lecturing me about just moments ago. Sounds about right, ya?" Gellert sums my request up in a charmingly accurate way, and even though I can discern the vitriol in his voice, since it is not very discreet, mind you, I can't help but nod in agreement.

"Yes, that sounds about right, I'm afraid." I add some lyrics to my nodding, and beam a smile at my lover, trying to assuage his evident irritation. It doesn't work.

"Fuck you, Al. Seriously, zhis is ridiculous! Fuck you!" he mumbles moodily, and then he decorates his statement with a few muttered, colourful, German swearwords that sound much like a cat trying to spit out a few giant hairballs. Fawkes appears to be taking offense at a few of these, and he croaks loudly to share his displeasure. I, on the other hand, do not mind; I think of them as sweet-talk.

"Again? That's some stamina you've got, at your age..." I reply, allowing my face to brim with admiration, and offering Gellert a toothy grin. I would have winked, as well, but I am afraid I might be getting to old for that sort of thing. He does not seem to appreciate the gesture, quaintly enough, as he is clearly not amused; oh dear, I deduce inside my head, he might actually be angry with me.

"Zis is not vhat I meant! And you know zhat! And I know zhat you know zhat! You are already infuriating enough vhen you don't try, so stop putting actual effort! Ach! Old coot von piece of Scheiße..." he grumbles with a sneer, and he scratches his flamboyant goatee in a manner that I find strangely appealing, if not hypnotising.

"But if we don't help him, he will never be able to understand the real reason he sacrificed everything he had achieved in his timeline in order to travel unwillingly to the past. He will feel lost, aimless, questioning himself and his actions forever more, and forever doubting whether he's understood his mission properly, and whether he's doing the right thing. A fate worse than death, Gellert," I underline my point with urgency, my voice dry and grave, and I steal a sideways glance towards the kitchen table, were a few cinnamon biscuits lie.

Soon the biscuits are levitating slowly towards me, in a manner as tactful and innocuous as possible. Gellert, nonetheless, notices them, and he raises one of his elegant, blond eyebrows derisively.

"You are avhare that you've already eaten two cakes and a bag of sveets today, ya?" he reminds me, pointing a long, bony finger as the parade of flying biscuits.

"You're changing the subject, Gellert. We were talking about Potter's existential tragedy," I remind him kindly, and pick up a hovering biscuit, only to subsequently place it inside my mouth. His face becomes flushed, and for a moment he looks as if he might strangle me; however, a few seconds later I am still alive, and if that is not proof of his profound love for me, then I don't know what is.

"Can I at least keep ze Elder Vand? It's just a klein little stick!" he whines.

"Gel.. We've talked about this... There are apparently two of them, and they are meant to be used by individuals with blended magical signatures. So you can't have one. I am really sorry." I inform him gently, for I am afraid he might take the news badly. Again.

"*&^%#$*7#^7*" he replies in angry German, and consequently throws a wandless _Bombarda_ at one of the floating biscuits, causing it to explode violently; he is quite spicy when he is frustrated, I note with affection. I really don't mind his temper, however. When he is angry, that thing happens where his blond curls fall carelessly onto his forehead, his eyes darken into polls of storm, and he stretches his long fingers menacingly, and it is altogether undeniably charming.

"Zhen vhy vould I fucking help your little hero person? Vhat's in for me?" he then asks, an expression of utter unhappiness adorning his majestic face. I refrain from calling it a pout solely due to my respect for his person.

"Well..." I begin innocently, and I lean into him, my lips approaching his ear dangerously as I whisper saucy suggestions of possible rewards. His eyes widen at first, and than he bites his lower lip, his eyebrows flying off into his (receding) hairline. Finally, he narrows his eyes predatorily, licking his lips and scratching his goatee with renewed energy.

"Albus... You naughty little jinx... Vhat are you... You vould..? You dirty old... Oooo, vhere could you have learned -zhat-? Alright, alright, I'll go fetch my notes, ya? I have a good lead on ze Stone, and I did find traces of one of ze Vands..." He greedily accepts and runs off with refreshing enthusiasm. He does not want to admit it, but he truly is a kind and selfless person underneath it all, I muse as I munch on a fragment of the previously _Bombarda_ed biscuit, which tastes slightly burned.

Yes, he is good at heart, and giving.

He just needs that little push sometimes.

* * *

Riddle's PoV

"I don't know exactly where his house is. I just know it's somewhere in this town," the green man explains factually as soon as we arrive, and even though I can sense the tension and concern gripping his broad frame, he talks as if nothing were, as if we were simply on our way to paying some twice-removed aunt a somewhat unpleasant but necessary social visit; and Mordred knows I truly hate him for it.

As we casually stroll around the appallingly picturesque little town, and despite my most faultlessly blank visage, I can feel my labyrinthine mind overheating with intense, conflicting thoughts; part of me is desperate to avoid the upcoming confrontation, devising escape routes, part of me is almost obsessively repeating the string of accusations I've always wanted to relay to my real father, and another part, small, hidden, repressed, is wondering if I could get away with murder. The plans, the scenarios, the questions all form a tangled web that encases and suffocates me, and even though the breeze is soft, the sun is gentle and the townsfolk smile, I feel like everything around us is mocking me; a twisted, nameless nightmare.

"Excuse me, Miss. Do you happen to know where a man named Tom Riddle lives?" the green man articulates, his query spoken is such a polite, almost tender manner, and his smile so catching, that the middle-aged woman, somewhat plump and dressed in a terribly plain, brown dress, blushes furiously in the form of uneven blotches before she eventually manages to put an answer in intelligible albeit grammatically suicidal words.

"Ah, Tom Riddle? Yeah, everyun knows 'em, Riddles. Live in a manor, they do, best place 'n all of the valley. They even have horsies there, rich as they are. It's that way. Just b'hind the little hill, yes? Family, I s'ppose? Bit of a resemblance, aye?" she mumbles, a disgustingly coy smile plastered on her equally distasteful face, and her painfully unintelligent eyes hop between the two of us in greedy awe, sizing us up like stallions in the marketplace.

Her devouring glare seems to linger more on Potter than in does on me, however, for perhaps she is deeming him to, unlike me, be of marriageable age, and thus a real opportunity; and is it wrong of me to experience the overwhelming itch to slaughter her, this worthless, plebeian wench, just for staring at him in such a way?

"Family? Ah, yes. Something like that. Thank you, Miss," Potter replies, and unlike my own subtle, ensnaring, manipulative grace, his charm is light and natural; merely his genuine kindness shining through, wooing people into liking and trusting him without the slightest effort, the slightest calculation.

"Yar welcome here anytime, Sir."

And so we walk on besides the fields in increasingly uncomfortable silence, and as the rays of sunlight get weaker and rosier by the minute, so does my mind become more and more restless, less and less well-organised, erratic even, much to my own dissatisfaction.

_Potter said he'd been under a Love Potion, and so here I am, a child not of desire, but of deceit and trickery; why would he have wanted me? Would I not have fled in his position?_

_No, no. I wouldn't have. It's unthinkable, despicable; abandoning one's own child._

_His child, his seed, his own progeny; he was supposed to look after me, he was obliged. All the pain, the darkness, the misery, everything that made me into the monster I am... His fault, this selfish, irresponsible coward._

_He deserves nothing less than death, he who destroyed me just to avoid responsibility, this pathetic, shameful muggle, this petty, dastardly man._

_He is not my father. I have no father._

_A Love Potion. Why would she have done that, this mother of mine, this stranger whose warmth I do not even vaguely remember? After generations of degradation and decay within the Slytherin line, finally a witch with courage, with some basic intellect, with the will to build her own destine, and she chooses to enrapture some pretty-faced muggle?_

_Why? Was his love worth so much to her that even a ghost of it, a pitiful caricature, a mere illusion was worth investing so completely into? Foolish, foolish and desperate. Nauseating._

_Voldemort... I can understand why I'd choose to give myself a new name. What do I have in common with a dishonourable muggle and a silly, pitiable witch? I am not a Riddle, and I am not a Gaunt. I am... Who am I?_

_No one. An unwanted, abandoned child, isolated and ridiculed for being different, feared for being talented, loved only ever as a lie, an actor. Is it evil of me, to desire revenge? Is it not merely justice I desire?_

_Avada Kedavra._

_Would you turn me in to the Aurors, Potter, if I mouth those tempting words? Would you ever understand, or even forgive me? No, no, you wouldn't. You are a man of ideals. If you give up your ideals, then you have nothing; I know that, and do not want you to be any different._

_And if I choose to kill him, I know you'll let me., for this is a test of sorts, I believe; a rite of passage, for you to conclude whether I'm truly capable of redemption._

_No._

_I will not say these words. I must not. I have worked too hard to rescue myself from the engulfing darkness, to find within me something real, something human. And perhaps I have a chance at fulfilment now, a shot at happiness, with the green man on my side, and plans for a movement of change, a purpose._

_Would it be worth it, this moment of absolute vengeance, of pure ecstasy, a delicious rush, and in exchange the little humanity I have left, and any hopes of tricking my fate? The right answer is no, isn't it? The one you'd want me to give? Damn you Potter, for dragging me to this crossroad, for even though I know what I must do, what you need me to do, I might not find the strength to do it._

_There's nothing in this world that is harder for me than forgiving._

"I think we're almost there," the assistant professor exclaims neutrally, pointing at a surprisingly elegant building emerging from beyond a line of triangular topiaries, and entirely demolishing the flow of my dramatic internal monologues; a disruption I might have minded under different circumstances, but feel almost grateful for right now.

" Look, I don't know if that will make you feel any better but... I ended up marrying a woman that looked almost exactly like my mother, while _I_ tried my best to be exactly what my father had been. Imagine. That's just how bad _my _daddy issues were. It took me a long time to realise that I was trying to honour my parents that way, their sacrifice; to recreate them, keep them alive. So don't do as I did; settle whatever differences you have with the past, and move on," he continues, and his weak attempt at humour, his superficial cheeriness, his trying to lighten the atmosphere cannot hide the genuine sorrow resonating in the depths of his voice and swimming within the emerald orbs of his eyes; he chose a bizarre moment to entrust this sort of matter with me, and yet it does make me feel better, knowing that he too was once tormented by the question of his identity, his roots, his origins.

"Disturbingly Oedipal. Although I am not entirely sure how your current association with adolescent sociopaths qualifies as being any healthier," I reply dryly but not without a hint of amusement, the painful storm of fear and anxiety within my mind somewhat subsiding at the sight of his small, guilty, and slightly goofy lopsided grin, his messy, untameable dark hair, his steady, strong, caring gaze, and I feel something unidentifiable throb inside my torso, pushing outwards, yearning to consume this man, to own him, to have him.

"I never said I wasn't fucked up. I only ever said that you are even more so," he answers, soft laughter ringing behind his deep, masculine voice, with his face now playful, teasing, as if he'd just winked at me; if that is him trying to assuage the savage uproar of conflicting feelings I am experiencing on the subject of my biological father, then he is even better at manipulating people's emotions than I had previously deduced, for I do, indeed, feel better.

"Oh, that's just spiffy. I win. What's the prize?" I bite back in a similarly mischievous manner, my tone and gaze dripping both with profuse sarcasm, arching my left eyebrow into my signature facial expression and smirking ever so slightly as I re-examine his own elfish grin; and then I see his features darken a little, dangerous and seductive.

"Prize huh? I'd tell you what the goddamn prize is, but I'm afraid you are a little too young at the moment. Just you wait, though, you effing tease..." he whispers as if sharing with me some scandalous confession, and I almost choke in shock; and here I thought I was the one pushing, doing all the tempting and insisting, and he was the one holding me at bay with the shiny shield of his impeccable ethics, his self-denial and martyrdom.

Ah, but I know: he is simply distracting me, taking my heavy mind off the upcoming confrontation. He is temporarily conceding into shamelessly flirting with me once more not because he intends to cancel the boundaries he recently set, but because he thinks it beneficial under the given circumstances to use my own attraction to him in a utilitarian manner, in order to ensure my violent urges are kept dormant.

"You're a Slytherin in denial," I note laconically, and despite the fact I'd expected him to act jokingly vexed at the accusation, he lets of a small roar of laughter of a truly mirthful nature and then fixes his eyes on me in a manner eerily soft, almost moved, as if I'd just something incredibly loveable.

"You say so, huh? So did the Sorting Hat..." he then mutters thoughtfully, his eyes wandering to the distance, as if he is trying to recall some half-forgotten events related to my observation, etched in the most remote folds of his memory; a strange sensation of vague, undefinable melancholy rolls of him in waves, and then he smiles at me again, and places his strong, calloused hand on my shoulder.

"We should go, Tom. It's rude to visit uninvited after sunset."

"I think it wiser to turn back..."

"You'll be fine."

_Will I?_

_Perhaps I will._

* * *

Potter's PoV

"Good evening. My name is Potter, Harry Potter. Is Mr. Riddle in?" I inquire as politely as possible, smiling kindly at the ageing maid behind the door, who looks intimidatingly cranky, and even bowing a little before her. The crease between her eyebrows lessens substantially; ah, the magical power of proper manners. Thank Merlin Narcisssa taught he some of those, I muse to myself, and my thoughts fly towards the detached, graceful woman, who, to the general astonishment of just about everyone, proved willing to fight against her own husband's forces for the sake of her son.

"Ah, yes. I shall go inform him of your visit. You may wait in the hall," the woman states with unnecessary formality and hurriedly slithers up the stairs, but not before bowing back a little, her small headpiece shaking quite comically.

I immediately make myself comfortable in the entrance hall, leaning my body against the grey wall; and then I turn my eyes to Riddle, finding him, as I had unfortunately expected, unwilling to enter the house. I stare at him, conveying a mixture of encouragement and exasperation, but he does not seem to respond, glaring stubbornly at the door instead, as if crossing this last border might give him the plague.

I stare at him some more, until he eventually walks in, hesitantly and warily as if he's just crossed into enemy territory, and closes the heavy wooden door behind him. Not a second later, two sets of footsteps are heard coming down the stairs, and I brace myself for a possible catastrophe.

As soon as the man steps down onto the ground floor, I discover myself astonished by the degree of physical similarity between him and his son; he is blessed with the same chiselled features, the same pale, unblemished skin, the same angular, lean body. His hair is greying, however, and he sports rather heavy sideburns. Furthermore, his eyes are of a rather mundane brown colour, very dissimilar to the boy's pools of ice. Tom is standing just behind me, and I hear with painful clarity the sharp intake of his breath and the sudden gritting of his teeth.

Worriedly, I realise that my own heart is pounding faster than I would have liked it too; I am more nervous about this than I'd cared to admit.

"Good evening, Sirs. I am not sure I know who you are, but please, do come in. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" he asks, a pair of stiff and courtly dimples appearing on his cheeks, and he leads us to the living room with swift, heavy steps. And while I compare the benefits and drawbacks of different approaches to revealing to him the existence of his son, the young student simply takes a step forward, leaving the safety of my shadow, and pins the man with a piercing gaze.

The man's eyes widen in immediate understanding (the physical resemblance speaks loudly in itself, and so does the boy's age), and nothing needs be said at all while he shakily sits himself down, his eyes never leaving the young Slytherin.

A grandfather clock is ticking.

The wind outside is howling still, and I absently note that it might rain soon.

Tom's magical aura is swirling expectingly, his eyes dangerous and demanding.

"I honestly thought she was lying to me. It never even... crossed my mind that it might be true," our host finally mumbles dazedly and in a genuinely apologetic manner, his brows meeting in evident regret. I turn my eyes to Tom, who is glaring at the man in a manner so sharp, so aggressive that his stare forms daggers almost tangible; and yet, he is perfectly controlled, his face stony, his body rigid. It is only the wild flaring of his magic that betrays the turmoil he is hiding inside.

"It didn't, did it?" he eventually hisses, coldly, his eyes narrowing just enough to communicate his spite and resentment, and his jaw clenched so tightly that the nerves on his neck appear to now protrude. Evidently taken aback by the frigid ire of his unknown son, the man lowers his head in confusion and shame.

"It was woman who had put me under some kind of mind-controlling concoction for months. I didn't believe her. How could I?" he utters almost pleadingly, and although I have to admit that his abandoning Merope Gaunt after was she did to him was quite justified, I am unfortunately certain that Tom will not share the sentiment.

"You could have waited the little time necessary for a pregnancy to become physically evident. And then, had she been lying to you, you could have murdered her for all _I _care," Tom Riddle states with frightening neutrality, and the accusations in his eyes are so pitiless, so wounding that the man winces visibly, closing his eyes for a fragment of a second, in grief.

"I know. When a gentleman "modifies" a lady, he is responsible for her, and he ought to marry her and ensure the safety of both her and her child, isn't that how it goes? But I was young, and brash, and arrogant, and terrified of marrying out of obligation; I wanted to marry out of love. And she... Her _witchcraft_... I was afraid she might use it on me again, even though she swore she wouldn't; she terrified me. When she revealed to me what she had been doing I... If I'd known she was truly pregnant, I wouldn't have left her, I swear..." he explains with sadness and desperation, and I find myself truly pitying him; really, he's not half as bad as I would have expected him to be.

Tom, however, does not seem to get any less angry, and the hardness on his face is so unfaltering, so unforgiving, that my own anxiety only keeps growing.

"I do not agree with what she did to you; I find it pitiable," the young man states, the tone of his voice inappropriately flat, turning his gaze towards the window. "Nonetheless, there is no excuse for what you did. One cannot simply flee from their responsibilities! As for her witchcraft... Does it so appal you? Because I happen to be a wizard myself; it is a genetic trait, you know. None of these... choosing to meddle with the devil nonsense most seem to believe," he continues, and then he pins his glare back onto the man, menacing, pitiless.

The man pales visibly, the blood leaving his clenched knuckles.

"You are... ah. I see," the middle-aged man croaks weakly. "Look I... I'm truly sorry. If I'd known she was telling the truth, I wouldn't have... And I am willing... I can try to repair my error. Is there anything you want? Money? Land? It is yours by blood, so it's only right you'd inherit some of it. Is there anything she needs? It's only honourable that'd I take responsibility for this and..." he then stammers, and as soon as he mentions the possibility of a compensation, I inwardly yelp in exasperation; he means well, but implying that we came here seeking his money will certainly not sit well with Tom. The exacerbation seems inevitable, I conclude, gathering my own magic to my hands, ready to interfere if needed.

Indeed, the resulting violent, explosive flair of Tom's magic suddenly causes a few vases to burst into pieces, and his eyes become void and dark.

"You think I want your money! Or perhaps your estates! All the money in the world could not repair what you have done! As for my mother... She wants nothing. She is dead," he shouts, spitting his words with shocking hatred, his wrath so great that the man's hands begin to shake.

"She's... dead?"

"She died alone, in the middle of a dirty street, just after giving birth to me. Or so I've been told. I wouldn't _know_," the boy snarls frostily, his robes billowing from the power of his barely restrained magic, and all I can see is that he is hurt, and damaged, and lonesome. I have to bite my lips in order to fight the urge to jump towards the boy, enveloping him inside my arms in order to calm him down. But I know he has to do this. He must.

"And... you?" the man stutters, almost too frightened to ask, out of fear of what the reply might be; there is more sadness in his eyes than fear, I notice, and I almost admire him for it. He suddenly looks older, resigned, spent.

"In an orphanage. Only years later was I adopted," the student verbalises slowly, poisonously, his irises gleaming red. Out of the window the sun is slowly setting, the sky getting darker and darker, and a cold, grey storm is brewing.

For a moment excruciatingly slow, almost frozen in time, a heavy silence reigns inside the mansion. The tension is so painfully palpable that I find myself gritting my teeth. I grit them so hard that my jaw hurts.

"Have you come to kill me, then?" the man ultimately whispers, his voice hoarse, but oddly gentle. I glance worriedly towards Riddle, and I feel my heart beating strongly inside my chest; the terrifyingly beautiful boy's eyes, as hard and merciless as ever, seem to scream "yes" with all their being, and I bend my knees ever so slightly, lowering the centre of my weight, ready to leap between the two men.

_Shit. Let it not come to this. _

_Could I have really been so wrong about this? No, no. I know he is ready. He won't do it. _

_Or am I letting my emotions get the best of me again? Am I so horribly miscalculating? After years of war, thinking myself cynical and ragged, am I still the same trusting, idealistic idiot? _

And then, with a swift and graceful movement, Riddle reaches for his wand, pulling it out smoothly and pointing it towards his biological father; and at almost the same moment, a stab of rue reaping through my chest, I jump forward and I cast, without word or wand, a strong reflective spell in front of the man. Tom doesn't cast anything, I observe with abundant relief washing over me, and my mirror shield is strong enough to reflect an _Avada_; therefore, Riddle Sr.'s life is not in danger.

The boy does not notice my spell, I realise with great surprise; he seems to think I am merely moving closer, readying myself to interfere, and in fact, he barely throws a single glance in my general direction. His eyes are nailed onto the hated figure of his father, his breath heavy and ragged, and a pearl of perspiration forming on his smooth forehead.

Yes, his father is not in danger; but then again, his father is not what I truly care about. What matters is that if he mouths the words, if he finds in him the will to kill, if he makes this decision, if he... then I will never forgive myself for making such a horrendous mistake.

_Don't do it, Tom. Please, don't cast..._

_A Rubicon. A point of no return._

Outside, the thunderstorm has already begun.

* * *

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps, light and cheery, coming quickly down the stairs, interrupts the pivotal, momentous moment, and both men, immobilised as if suspended in time, turn their heads towards the source of the sound. The footsteps reach the ground floor, and then move closer and closer, until they get to the living room; Riddle Sr. closes his eyes in evident despair.

A little girl walks into the room, seven years old at most, and as soon as I turn my eyes towards her, I recognise her delicate cheekbones, her rosy lips, her pallid complexion, her dark, slightly wavy hair; she looks like a porcelain doll, I inwardly whisper, and my lips part in amazement and realisation. I turn my head to Tom, and indeed, he too seems to have drawn the same conclusion, for his mouth is slightly open, his eyes widening with surprise and the hateful angles of his face a little softer.

"Dad? What's going on?" she mumbles with a shaky voice, looking increasingly frightened by the strange scene upon which she has stumbled; her father surrendered, scared and shamed standing before a clearly unnatural boy, soaked in tangible ire. Tom Riddle, even paler than before, has his eyes glued on her still, his unknown sister, and when I take a step back, putting them both within my field of vision, I find them looking so strikingly similar that it is almost eerie.

And then, in Tom Riddle's eyes I discern a flash of uncertainty, of doubt, and his wand-hand wavers a little, his nostrils quivering. I know this expression, I realise; Draco Malfoy's expression, when he was standing before Albus Dumbledore.

A new certainty blossoms inside my chest. He won't kill him.

"Helena... I... You should go back upstairs. Go to your mother, alright? Go practice with your violin," Tom Riddle Sr. tells the little girl, a heart-wrenching, forced smile trembling on his ashen face, and the graceful, cute little creature offers him an unsure, ambivalent grin and then runs off the room, stumbling a little in her hurry. The young student watches her dispassionately, pensively as she leaves, and even after she's disappeared, his gaze lingers on the door out of which she'd just fled, until he finally allows his hand to fall, securing his wand away at last.

"Take care of her. Children need a good father," the statuesque boy ultimately formulates, his voice hollow and flat, but the cruelty slowly dripping away from his face.

"...Thank you," replies the man, his body collapsing on a nearby chair. Fear of death can certainly be exhausting, I observe, recalling my own childhood.

And so Tom turns around and, without another word, he walks calmly away from the living room and towards the large door, his lithe form gliding with surreal elegance. I immediately follow, still overwhelmed by a huge tsunami of relief; this could have evidently gone worse, much worse.

Just before we close the door behind us, the man speaks one more time.

"I am sorry. I am truly sorry," he says, and even Tom, with all his hatred, all his misconception, all his delusions, all his damage and his wounds, I am sure that even he can tell the awkwardly mumbled apology is honest.

* * *

"Well, this was purifying," the young man declares as soon as we find ourselves outdoors once more, and I can tell he is only partially sarcastic. The night has fallen, dark, cloudy and full of thunder, flashes of which occasionally carve the outline of his magnificent face, like cameras trying to capture a fleeting moment of his marble perfection.

"Told you it would be," I reply, although this entire meeting came so close to being a disaster, that I barely think I deserve to take credit for having been right all along.

"I don't want to see them again anytime soon, however. Not even her. I don't think I'm ready to be a good brother," he subsequently mumbles, his eyes looking upwards, absent-mindedly, into the admittedly fascinating storm. To this I say nothing, for agreeing would be tactless, and disagreeing would be dishonest; poor boy, I consider inwardly, his hurt is virtually palpable, despite the dryness of his statements and his eyes.

_Not anger. Not hatred. Not pathos. Hurt. Hurt is the root of all evil. Hurt is the mother of Voldemort._

_Voldemort._

_In retrospect, I almost pity him, as well. My own timeline's Riddle. How different things could have been had someone realised how hurt the boy was, how damaged, how wounded. Perhaps there is nothing inherently evil in this world at all; only loneliness, rejection, abandonment and hurt._

_Yes. I am willing to believe that even those who, on a physical, neurological level, are, to smaller or larger degrees, barred from the usual human experience of natural empathy, or guilt, or impulse control, are not necessarily evil. Or dangerous. It is society that makes them so, by not knowing how to handle them, how to teach them._

_And Riddle... He is what he is; but he is no monster._

With this whole ordeal now over, I finally allow myself to do what I had been urgently desiring all along: I walk up to Riddle and I embrace him tightly, his head crashing against my neck, the smell of his hair right under my nose, and something inside my swelling chest explodes with release. Closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around him protectively, I permit myself to silently admit how much I've grown to love him, and how he means the entire world to me, my purpose, my treasure, my nemesis. How all else lies forgotten.

My thoughts are disrupted abruptly when his lanky fingers climb to each side of my face, his lips suddenly pressed against mine with heart-writhing desperation and yearning. He does not open his mouth; it is not a kiss of lust, moist, complex and alluring. It is a kiss of need; chaste but forceful, determined to convey its message, almost imploring to be accepted. It lasts only a few seconds before the boy pulls back, his breath heavy and uneven.

"I know that I... agreed to your rules, and I don't intend to ignore them, truly. But this once, just this once... I'm just so tired," he says, unusually uneloquent, and with his body pressed against mine I can all but feel his heartbeat. His gaze is disquietingly serious.

"It's fine, Tom." I answer, my voice so atrociously tender that it sounds foreign even to me, and I place my hand against his own pale cheek. "We're out of Hogwarts grounds anyway," I add with a small, impish grin, and then I kiss him back, just as chastely as he'd previously kissed me, but just as greedily. I don't even want to think I could have lost him because of my own pressure and stupidity. I was just so eager for him to heal, to be at peace...

_Avada Kedavra my life. I love him. Gods, I love him._

_Harry fucking Potter; I'm such a joke._

_Can't meet anyone without loving them, can I? Fuck. I just have to go around loving everyone, foes included. Draco Malfoy burning? Let's rescue him! Pettigrew? Let's pity him! Young Voldemort? Let's fall in love with him._

_Fuck._

_No, seriously. Fuck._


	44. Chapter 44

Disclaimer: Imagine no possessions ~ I wonder if you can ~ No need for greed or hunger ~ A brotherhood of man... ~

A/N: I would write lengthy and heartbreaking descriptions of what I've been going through during these last months, but I'm pretty sure you'd rather I just get on with the fic itself. I do apologise for having given the impression I've abandoned Wand Cores. As you see, I haven't.

Thank you to everyone that wished my mother the best. She is, surprisingly, still alive and well-ish, despite the initial predictions that she would not really make it for much longer, so I guess wishes do count for something.

I love every single person that has left a review or sent a pm telling me to hold on.

* * *

Chapter 44

Tom's PoV

Even the comforting darkness and solitude of my dormitory room does not manage to soothe my furious hyperventilation and the absolute chaos reigning within the landscapes of my confused mind; there is simply too much information to process, too many occurrences to comprehend, too much emotion to suppress, and I can feel myself almost short-circuiting, a vicious headache throbbing through my temporal veins.

_I have a sister. Kin. Blood._

_My father... Nothing like the glorified villain, the cruel, heartless figure I'd naively, subconsciously imagined him to be. Such an inappropriate target for the intensity of my hatred; a man tired, full of regrets and resignation. How can one still desire to punish a man, when the man is so evidently punishing his own self already?_

_And Potter... He was right, again, that damnable messiah with his despicable hero complex and his irrational openness, his unfaltering trust in me. He and the perfidious, disarming honesty of his care, that addicting sense of safety his dominating yet... selfless, tender kisses provide._

_Could it really all... be fine, one day?_

_The knots untied, the shadows chased, and ghosts exposed, so that one day, I may just sit behind a dining table, next to my sister (and by Merlin, the notion still feels too unreal, too exotic) and ask her about her music, and she'll just smile and talk? That I may just invite my father to attend the small Samhain celebration Harry and I will be hosting, and it will all be natural, and tangible, and uncomplicated?_

_How pathetic I sound, Morgana damn me! A snivelling little orphan, still harbouring pitiful little fantasies of family and company and homely bliss, despite all my intellect, my ambitions, my achievements, my talent, my superficial cynicism..._

_Still so damn weak._

_So damn predictable._

A strong wave of self-disgust hits me square into my aching chest, and I feel myself hating how easy it is to weave ugly, plebeian dreams of occasional domesticity, even as I know that they could never be achieved, even as I know that the cracks in this particular family portrait are too deep, have been there for too long to ever be mended.

The green man is the one to blame of course, he and his nauseating influence, his childish, revolting belief that all can be solved through love and togetherness and whatever other happy, idealistic concept Apple-vore has been feeding him with, he and his illogical, incoherent faith in people, that has been rubbing off on me, too.

And yet, I am far beyond being able to bring myself to resent Harry to an adequate degree for his loathsome influence on me, for every time my disobedient mind drifts towards him, I discover myself entangled in thoughts of desire and fascination, and trapped by the lingering image of these impossibly, killingly green eyes, looking at me, into me, right through me, and treacherously ensnaring me with their imposing power, as well as their fearless tenderness.

However, I can no longer afford to waste my time in this manner, tormented by both shock and fear in the face of my nascent ability to feel affection. I've got to get a grip, and graciously acknowledge, accept even, that I am changing, and that it might be for the best, no matter how deeply, how wildly it terrifies me.

I need to get my mind off this vicious circle.

_There is so much to think about, to analyse. _

_First and foremost, the matter of Walburga Black must be considered, and the general political and social equilibrium, or rather the surprising lack thereof, within the Slytherin House at the moment._

_Then, of course, there is the subject of the Hallows, and the surprising, ground-breaking possibility of them being four in number instead of three, as well as all the intensely interesting implications such a theory leads to as far as soul-blending and "twins" are concerned..._

_Not to forget that I have yet to finish studying the two incredibly valuable tomes I have received from the foolish and quaint old coot; it is a sin against everything I believe in, to leave two such stunning fountains of magical knowledge untended for so long._

Nonetheless, a small, mocking voice hissing inside my head informs me that I shall find it very hard to truly concentrate, and that perhaps it is not an opportune moment for an in-depth study of Emrys' and Le Fay's incredibly challenging and complex oeuvre, causing me to opt for busying myself with strategising on the subject of Slytherin politics instead.

The cool and smooth texture of Nagini's length coiling against my stomach offers me a source of unexpectedly immense comfort as I lie back against the soft mattress, the labyrinthine network of neurons that constitutes my brain setting up an imaginary chessboard of souls, upon which I am the White King, and the wretched, unmeritorious Miss Black is, with all puns intended, the Black Queen, and where the Black King is the established order of hierarchy within the wizarding world.

The victor is already blindingly unmistakeable, and yet the game shall be fun, I declare inwardly in a self-satisfied, sing-song voice, basking in my own Machiavellian glory.

* * *

_Move one, English Opening for the Whites. Pawn to c4; a flexible and provocative move._

"Am I supposed to crush these, or slice them, Riddle?" Dan Pattington asks me, nervousness and uncertainty seeping into his voice, for he knows that he relies on me a little too much during Potions, and is, naturally, afraid that, despite my undeniably nice and giving persona, I might soon tire of helping him out, and politely instruct that he study more, and stop pestering me. However, despite how much the clumsy Gryffindor half-blood and his excruciating lack of magical talent irk me, I have been very, very careful in cultivating my social relationships and my popularity, and since helping others is a great opportunity to have them feel indebted towards me, I will forever make sure to always be as disarmingly helpful as possible.

Today, nevertheless, the main dish of manipulative support shall be served with a fresh hors d'oeuvre of personal moment of touching weakness, a little snack I know Gryffindors to be particularly vulnerable to.

For a second, I pretend not to have heard his meek little cry for help, meticulously controlling my facial muscles in order to offer the boy a small, momentary, "accidental", but good glimpse of some kind of internal suffering and conflict, my pained eyes flying far away, and my thin lips pursed as to exhibit a state of suppressed torment.

"Riddle... Are you alright?" he questions, evident concern rising in his voice, for even the most soft and passive and insecure little Gryffindor invariably carries a healthy dose of heroism and protectiveness, Merlin bless their laughably predictable little souls.

"Wha...? Oh, I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention." I quickly mumble, in a voice that sounds forcefully neutral and unemotional, as to suggest that I am undergoing some kind of emotional turmoil I am trying to hide, and that I am attempting to clumsily veil a rare moment of personal vulnerability. "You have to crush these, yes." I then add, giving my tone a texture of fake and unconvincing factuality, a perfect act of trying to appear fine but not quite managing; all the while, I inwardly congratulate myself for being so good an actor as to be able to act out an act of acting.

"Hey, Riddle... Are you sure you're ok...?"

Bait taken, of course; it is only too easy to pull the strings of a such a simple little mind, and besides, what with me always being a figure of shining and unblemished perfection, a monster of composure, everyone seems hungrily, desperately eager to see me crack once in a while, to see me weak and vulnerable and human, and this eagerness becomes a useful weapon in my hands. _(But of course, no one shall be allowed to ever truly see me defenseless, no one but him, my personal nemesis__.)_

"Yes, I am alright, I assure you. Thank you for your concern," I reply defensively, icily, and under a very superficial layer of collectedness and unflappability I let the kid witness something like a glimpse of fear in me, fear that someone, oh, woe is me, might have seen behind my mask, into the grief within my poor little soul.

"Riddle..." he starts softly, with his ugly little doe eyes pouring out some terrible mixture of compassion, admiration and fondness, "It's alright, you can talk to me. We're friends, right? You've been helping me out for years, and all."

I carefully morph my visage as to exhibit a hint of hesitation, and I look away from his eyes for a few seconds, seemingly debating with myself on whether I should trust the foolish little lion with whatever is tormenting me; I even let out a small, elegant, barely audible sigh from between the slightly parted rosy lips, and although I am quite certain that Pattington is exclusively attracted to the opposite gender, my refined traces of vulnerability do not fail to make him blush.

"It's nothing... Just... The Slytherin House being what we all know it to be," I finally state, with manifest nonchalance, and yet inviting him slyly to question me more, allowing him the beautiful chance to play hero for once, to feel useful, to reverse the debt he owes me and to act upon his unhidden appreciation for me.

"Hn. Yeah, I did hear something about your fight with Black... You have real guts going against that whole Pureblood lobby, you know. I bet they're giving you shit about it, huh? For being a Muggle sympathiser and for not belonging to one of their snotty clans or houses," he states hotly, almost passionately, and I can tell that my supposed cause resonates well with him, for his usually sheepish smile and tame, spiritless eyes are gone, replaced by a surprising ardour, a kind of passionate, self-righteous anger that stems from the very foundations of the Gryffindor soul. Then, his sickeningly over-emotional eyes widen a little, in realisation, and he almost whispers: "Are they... bullying you, or something?"

Careful to always stay in character, I obviously scoff at such an absurd notion; the model student, the brave little orphan would never admit to being victim of that kind of behaviour, proud and dignified and private as he is. I do, however, wear the slightest, most faint blush for a second, betraying the supposed truth in his words, and causing his lips to part in something that could be ire, shock, or a strange concoction created by heating various measures of the two.

"They are, the fuckin' bastards... They probably didn't like you openly challenging their stupid, elitist bullshit mentality, huh? Well, let me tell you, you're the best Slytherin I know, Tom. You're worth more than the rest of your house put together, and that bitch better think twice before she tries to do anything, because this school ain't her playground!"

Later, I hear from a couple of second year Slytherins, a disgusting group of gossiping, mumbling, useless little wenches, about a group of inexplicably ticked off Gryffindors verbally assaulting Lucretia Black, Walburga's cousin twice removed, and I cannot help but feel the corners of my mouth twitch upwards in delight.

* * *

_The Blacks respond in a similar manner. Pawn to g6._

When Professor Wilhelm Joyce informs the Gryffindors that, unfortunately, the Quidditch field has been reserved by the Slytherin team, when everyone knows full well that it hasn't, even the youngest students are aware of the underlying nature of this event; a subtle threat, and a less than subtle show of influence and power on the part of the old, powerful familes and their snotty progeny.

* * *

_The Whites bring forth a Pawn to f4, while the Blacks move a Bishop to g7. The Whites rebut with a Knight to f3._

Claiming that everyone seems heavily surprised when the famously spineless Eileen Prince gives Alphonse Du Pond, a French Pureblood playboy with rather substantial political connections, a detention for walking around the corridors at an inappropriate hour, would be an understatement of truly massive proportions.

And thus, no one is too surprised when rumours about the Princes being inexplicably denied a loan from a reputable German wizarding bank start circulating, for, of course, one cannot simply stain Du Pond's provokingly blank student record with a detention just like that, without expecting some form of punishment or another. And so, this move, for the first time, brings the cunning, elusive clash of wits, persuasion, and impact, out of the strict confines of Hogwarts, moving more than a mere pawn, upping the stakes, boldly trying to prove that challenging a long since established pecking order can have serious consequences.

Nevertheless, I am not the slightest bit impressed by the largely aggressive reaction of the Pureblood regime, and do not allow myself to react with any sort of impulsive defensiveness; instead, collected and partially amused at the unfolding of this wonderful little game, I decide to keep my own cavalry safely hidden, and keep on prickling the foe with a strategy of attrition, lulling him into a false sense of security.

For now, I keep my game within my dear mouldy castle, and the very next day, in a rather simple Potions assessment, the young Du Pond receives a scandalising, disgraceful T, for Slughorn, ever the foxy, perceptive, sharply intuitive little worm, is keenly aware of how powerful I shall become, and has learned that is always most wise to side with the future winners.

* * *

_Pawn to d6 for the Blacks, followed by Pawn to e3 for the Whites. A rather panicky Pawn to f5 for the Blacks, mirrored by a cool and defensive Bishop to e2._

My keeping the conflict within the Hogwarts establishment, and choosing to temporarily ignore the harsh hit against the Prince family, sends the deceptive message that for whatever reason, perhaps out of fear, or out of lack of influence, whatever phantom enemy the old families are being challenged by (for I am relatively sure they view their new foe as some kind of disgustingly progressive social movement, rather than realising it is actually a material person) cannot manage to hit back quite as hard.

Satisfied with their little victory, they allow themselves to stop feeling threatened; if this is merely a game of children, a little high-school popularity issue, then let it be played by children, I know they have decided, and let there be no need for the stronger pieces to step in. And so, just before the anxiously awaited Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, the Hufflepuff seeker's modestly expensive broom mysteriously vanishes, forcing him to ride on a pitiful, shabby little stick, and leading to an ugly defeat for the soft-hearted little badgers.

Yes, let them believe that this is nothing but a little round of pranks, let them suspect no strong moves from the Whites, I smile to myself almost dizzied with the beautiful, magical sensation of a plan unfolding exactly as designed, all while I prepare myself for a rousing offense.

"Yes, I am quite sure that he shall ask for a dance tomorrow. He implied so when he was talking with Crabbe, you know," the sixth year girl mutters with the glee of a conspirator, and all three of them giggle as they exchange rumour and information between smirks and wishful murmurs; the kind of pitiful and gut-churning social activity I would have otherwise be loath to participate in, and yet...

"Ah, Mercina, of course he shall dance with you. Everyone is aware of his intentions..." I cut into the feminine conversation smoothly, and even though my words, per se, contain no suspicious implications or meanings, the trained ear of a Slytherin woman can easily catch the ever so slightly pitying, ever so pernicious tone of my voice, and the young snakes turn their slitted eyes towards me, obviously asking for explanations, that I swiftly offer to provide.

"Well, it has been rather evident that Lestrange intends to court you..." I begin somewhat hesitantly but with a clean and charming voice, putting on a deliciously convincing act of slight discomfort, as if I might have blundered by revealing something that should not have been revealed. "With you about to inherit the sole Wizengamot seat of the House of Cadhain, it could be an agreeable solution for the Cadhain to come under the wing of a larger House, and it would also be pleasant for the Lestranges to... develop friendly relations with yet another seat-holder and earn their possible... support."

_In the Slytherin language, my statement transliterates to "it's not you he's courting, silly; it's your possible vote"._

Well-trained in the act of conversation as she is, she keeps her face free of emotions, and yet I can sense her cringing behind her cold, aristocratic features, her foolishly romantic little heart breaking at the brutal realisation, before she raises her eyes and drills them into mine, mirrors of silent gratitude towards me, for kindly disillusioning her when I had no obligation to.

"Yes, of course. Thank you for reminding me once again how mutually beneficial a... bond with the Lestranges could possibly be, Riddle," she exclaims with words formal and manners impeccable, and she offers me a strained smile.

When, during the Lestranges' Ball, Mercina Cadhain unpredictedly refuses to dance with their elder son, even though, through dedicated, careful and skilled courtship the Lestrange House had been almost certain they'd secured power over the future Cadhain seat-holder through a highly convenient marriage, the Pureblood social circles shiver in shock, and realise that whatever they are in conflict against has its fangs sunken deeper into them than they had previously assumed.

I, too, shiver soon enough, but it is due to the primal, raw pleasure that courses through my veins when I taste the quiet panic, the increasing desperation written all over their next move, for, like any self-respecting predator, I do profoundly enjoy the wordless fear, the aggressive recklessness oozing out of an overconfident beast when it suddenly feels threatened.

Yes, a harsh, violent move it is, when Gladius Mulciber abruptly removes his financial support for the Burbage Philter Industries, implying rather clearly, albeit with charming, veiled words, in his subsequent Daily Prophet interview, that Muggle sympathisers should not expect much lenience from the wizarding financial lobby.

This time, however, I am done appeasing and lulling, tricking and deceiving, for I can see many moves ahead, and I can see, clearly as the crystal skies of a bright summer day, that the time has come for me to plant the seeds of chaos, and to unleash an offence of such magnitude, as to strike true, profound, nameless anxiety in the heart of the wizarding hierarchy.

* * *

"Hmm. Excellent idea, Riddle, but it will be highly difficult to convince my father about this. The Mulcibers have very strong ties to the House of Black, and the House of Black is the one clan even the Malfoys cannot hope to make a move against without facing very severe consequences. We have, for centuries, been the two most powerful Pureblood families, and I am not certain father will approve of an action that will evidently upset the fragile equilibrium we have managed to reach," Abraxas states, his thin lips toying around with a playful smirk, and his attractive, silver eyes challenging and amused.

Wanton, spoiled brat, I think to myself irritatedly; he has already sided with me, and he is already well aware that he will be doing exactly as I say, and yet, he simply loves playing hard to get, the arrogant little attention whore, and is unmistakeably fond of indulging himself in flirtatious witty banter, as well as being threatened, oddly masochistic as he often is.

Well, let him have what he wants, then, I suppose, and I swiftly drop my amicable visage, pulling forth the iciest, most cruel, most terrifyingly void expression my acting arsenal has to offer, my open glare glacial and authoritarian enough to cause a sharp breath to glide between the Malfoy's spreading lips, a little shaky gust of air betraying both fear and desire, for the two seem to be deeply intertwined for this disturbing young Slytherin.

"You will listen to me, Abraxas, and do as I say. You will convince your father that the time has come for open conflict against the Blacks, using the six unshakeable arguments I carefully explained just before, and presenting them as your own. I know, and you know, and your father will know, too, that there is no error in these calculations, and no room to doubt the precision and insight of these political plans. He is not a man to by-pass this kind of opportunity, as we are both well aware, so I would rather you stop being so... difficult," I hiss in a shamelessly immodest, tyrannising fashion, as I walk forth with slow, precise, heavy steps, and, grabbing the young man's collar with an agile and savage move, I stop restraining my magical power, allowing its aura to crackle freely around me and stab through the Malfoy heir.

He stares back at me with aroused, heavy-lidded eyes, and his lips are parted, suspended in motion, his heart beating in allegretto, his long, bleach-coloured hair falling back in abandon; his lust disgusts me.

"You're stunning when you drop the whole poor little orphan act," he whispers, a voice thick with horror and fascination both, and, feeling my gut overwhelmed with nausea and odium, I immediately release him backwards, causing him to stagger and keel before finally securing his balance by grabbing clumsily onto the velvet sofa.

That abhorrent, repulsive waste of space and oxygen, I hum to myself; he believes himself to be that one special little snowflake to have seen behind my cloak and my disguise, and yet he is just as pathetic as any of them, just as vulnerable and simple and easy to operate, the difference being merely that his decadent, pseudo-sophisticated desires make it useful for me to employ an entirely different mask when dealing with him.

How insolent, how audacious of him to presume his scrofulous, debauched eyes could ever possible see me, _see me,_ like those green eyes see me: for _everything _I am, both honourable and malevolent, both healed and shattered, both dictatorial and submissive, both unimaginably powerful and infinitely frail and feeble. A contradiction far too daedal, too convoluted, too fractious for his simple bourgeois mind to grasp. A truth reserved for Potter only.

The contempt in my wintry eyes seems to only stimulate him more, however, and so, without uttering even a single additional word, I turn around I leave.

The next day and to my immense amusement, jaws drop one after the other when, just before the Wizengamot voting on the subject of the Industrial Security Policy Decree proposed and introduced by Gladius Mulciber, Malfoy, Odgen, Crabbe and Goyle withdraw their support, leaving Mulciber suddenly exposed to a political defeat that could very possibly tear the established structure of power of the wizarding society in shreds.

"I see you've been keeping yourself terribly busy, Tom," Potter halts and remarks in a tone both entertained and worried, when, later during that very evening, we walk past one another in a conveniently deserted corridor. His handsome, rugged but kind face is difficult to decipher, as usual, as there are too many different emotions twirling together there, and, as any painter would know, too many colours always tend to blend into dull, secretive grey.

I, do, however, detect pride, gravity, amusement, wariness, joy, resignation and concern, an odd cocktail containing a few seemingly mutually exclusive feelings, that I am not sure I can properly comprehend.

"I do have to somehow fill the unbearable emptiness the lack of your awkwardly snogging me under the starry sky has left behind, you know," I immediately bite back, and even though my words are inherently humorous and teasing, I speak them in a most serious, objective manner, much like one would share a scientific observation. I expect to find the edge of his lips curling ever so softly upwards but, to my irrational and shameful disappointment, they don't, the expression on his beautifully masculine face still oddly incomprehensible.

"Upsetting the balance between the two major pureblood Houses was a very bold move. I hope you know what you're doing," the time-traveller utters tersely, and suddenly I discover myself feeling mildly upset, vexed even, at this openly spoken lack of faith in me, my eyebrows arching upwards in a soundless sneer.

"You wound me. You know what I am capable of, so do not waste your saliva with some cautionary speech on playing with the big boys now."

He smiles at that, apparently amused by my childish little demonstration of wounded pride, and his breath-stopping, Avada-coloured eyes do not hide their silent affection for me, making me suddenly feel my chest constrained with some unnamed feeling. "That is not what I meant, Tom."

Then, his face hardens a little once again, the smooth, angular length of his jawline clenching to a degree that would be imperceptible to anyone less observant than me, and he lets out a long, deep breath that reeks of unreasonable sadness, a sound that, for a reason I could not hope to put into words, makes me feel strangely, sharply guilty.

"I'm just worried that you might be enjoying this a bit too much. And sometimes the means become the end." he eventually adds, his voice curiously soft, and the onus of responsibility weighing heavily upon his strong features as he offers me a bittersweet smile.

_Sometimes the means become the end._

_Yes, I understand, and I honestly can't blame you for worrying about that, Harry; and yet..._

I feel my own eyes soften in wordless understanding as I let my gaze travel across the now familiar shapes and curves and tips of his face's landscape, and it is with considerable difficulty that I manage to suppress the quaint, impulsive desire to reach out for his skin, to let my fingers slide against the rough texture of his cheeks.

"You've trusted me before. Trust me now," I reply after a few moments of slightly uneasy silence, without allowing my words to sound like a plea, and yet without letting them appear inappropriately commanding; a difficult, fragile balance that earns me a pair of shy dimples on each side of his weary face.

His sole response is the sudden leaning of his head, that catches me fully unprepared, followed by the sensation of his slightly chapped but fittingly gentle lips pressing without warning against my own into a chaste, accepting kiss, that tastes exactly like _"alright, I trust you"._

It is only after we part ways once again that I realise how preposterously speedy and uneven my heartbeat has become, and I feel flooded by a sense of helplessness and humiliation, feeling utterly and bitterly betrayed, defiled by this ridiculous viscus fluttering between my ribs.

_Be still, damn you. _I snarl inwardly.

* * *

_The Blacks move a Pawn to c6. White castle their King. Black Queen to c7, as the Blacks become desperate. Knight to c3 for the Whites, calm and collected as ever, seeking control over the board. The Blacks bring a Pawn to e5; open conflict draws near. Pawn to e4 for the Whites, as the challenge is accepted._

Finally, we're playing in the big league now, I muse, pleased with the the increasingly combative, vulturous nature of the Pureblood lobby's behaviour; although, I do almost pity the Cadhain House, for the scandal about the apparent unhygienic working conditions leading to the temporary shutting down of Cadhain Cauldrons, a major branch of Cadhain Industries, has yet to die down. Mercina, openly outraged with the "viciously spiteful behaviour of these manipulative scumbags", has now firmly allied herself to my cause, and has rather openly offered her assistance in any act that might help bring justice against the ones who harmed her kin.

However, her kindly offered assistance is not required as of yet, for I know just the -deliciously simple, lusciously elegant- way to erase Mulciber from the board, without even using any of my heavier pieces, without even wasting any truly valuable resources. Indeed, after his opprobrious defeat within the Wizengamot, and his having fallen obviously (even if without true explanation) out of favour with the Malfoy House, even the Blacks seem now unwilling to associate themselves with that name too much, obviously aware that, at this point, his support is worth less than his reputation costs, leaving Gladius Mulciber in a scrumptiously vulnerable position.

An anonymous student's claim that the man's youngest daughter has been trying to blackmail the Astronomy professor into raising her mediocre grades, surfacing at first as a dubious testimony found in small print on the yellow pages of a second-rate newspaper, is enough to snowball into a beautiful crescendo of vicious rumours about the entire Mulciber household, a trend that is then eagerly taken advantage of by the Goyles, who have always been the Mulcibers' most prominent rivals in the field of private finance.

The Noble House of Black, however, have the experience of long years of intrigue, backstabbing, persuading and politicising, and are, just as I had expected actually, crafty and clever enough to gracefully cut their ties to the sinking House, and erase all traces and paper trails that could expose their involvement in any kind of Mulciber affairs.

Is it, in fact, them who deal the coup de grâce against their former allies, by daring to imply in a fashion less veiled than usual, during a Wizengamot assembly, that perhaps there could be a matter of the Mulciber House no longer being fit to hold a seat; a splendid defensive manoeuvre, the spitting image of Pontius Pilatus washing his sinful hands.

Slowly, everyone, including the despicably unintelligent and passive general public, is coming to realise that some manner of invisible war is unfolding before them, and is becoming increasingly aware of some kind of nameless, faceless challenge issued audaciously before the all powerful and viciously conservative social hierarchy, the establishment, the powers that be.

It is subtle things, mostly, such as Borgin and Burkes refusing, for the first time, to cut their prices almost in half when dealing with the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and politely informing their Black customers that a new policy of pre-set, equal-for-all prices has been implemented.

Subtle counter-attacks, too, like the vicious and traumatising bullying and verbal abuse of a couple of snivelling Gryffindor girls by a group of older, Pureblood Slytherins within the soundproof confines of the girls' lavatories, an incident that was somehow rumoured to be related to Valian Avery.

_Yes, perhaps I am indeed enjoying this a little bit too much, but, honestly, Potter, dearest, can you blame me?_

_Despite your better judgement, even _you_ are enjoying this, dearest elusive object of desire; your eyes do not lie too artfully._

And thus, for a while, I assume a defensive posture in the face of this gracefully blossoming social bedlam, watching rather than acting, waiting for the next moment where a little push in the right direction will be needed, and discovering, quite gleefully, that the individuals who have been looking for an opportunity to express their disdain towards the rigid and conservative plutocracy of the old Houses are even more numerous than I had initially estimated.

* * *

_Blacks move a Knight to e7, and Whites a Pawn to e5. The first casualty has fallen. Then Pawn to e5 for the Blacks also. Revenge. Pawn to c5 for the Whites, Pawn to h6 for the Blacks. This war leaves no one outside._

_The White bring a Bishop to e4. Escalation. Knight to d7 for the Blacks, and then Queen to d6 for the Whites._

"You're a good man, Riddle, whether you know it or not. I admire what you're doing," Eileen Prince tells me in her soft, meek, infinitely melancholic voice, a few days after her apprenticeship to the highly reputable Potions' Master Matteus Longbernen has been secured, a suggestion that she knows she has me to thank for.

"I am not sure what you mean. I am not doing much," I reply with a warm smile and impeccable manners, running my long, pallid fingers through glossy dark hair in feigned confusion. She simply presents me with a knowing smile, a smile of mischievous approval, and I do find it beautifully ironic that out of all these famously powerful wizards, all these self-proclaimed prodigies and these supposedly shrewd men of politics and intrigue, it is the bland, dull, silent little Prince heir that is the first to realise without my her offering any clues, that indeed I, a boy that is little more than fourteen years of age, am somehow, shadily, related to a major political crisis.

"Whoever you are working for is lucky," she then adds, and, with her wobbly, kind voice, she wishes me all the best before we part ways, her slightly slouchy, painfully shy figure walking away with clumsy, long steps.

_Well, good thing I am working for myself, then._

* * *

_Black Queen to a5, finally crawled out of its hole. White Pawn to f5; another Black falls. Black Pawn to f5; eye for an eye. Rook to e1 for the Whites, preparing their strategy carefully. Rook to f8 for the Blacks, mirroring. The Whites move a Bishop to h6; no mercy for Black Pawns. Black Rook to f6. White Bishop to g7. A Black Bishop is lain to waste._

Finally, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black graces me with a open blow; and what a strong, lovely one it is -so easy to take advantage of, so predictable-, when it comes to be suggested that perhaps it is time for Armando Dippet, who has now exceeded three centuries of age, to resign from his position and rest, for the turbulent state of the school can certainly not be healthy for a wizard his age.

However, I make all the appropriate suggestions and implications in the right times and places, and make it so that, soon, hearsay has it that the Blacks are merely trying to dispose of a Headmaster they cannot control; slander is only too easy to cultivate in a small, vicious society like this castle's. Consequently, a movement of resistance against Dippet's forced retirement is somehow formed, first through the Gryffindors -their heightened sense of loyalty and dedication is only too manipulable-, but then spreading like wildfire amongst the other houses, too.

At some point in time, someone comes up with a fairly tasteless and gaudy design for a "Hands off Dippet" campaign button, which, despite its astonishing visual atrociousness, becomes wildly popular amongst students, at first, before finally making its appearance upon the robes of staff members themselves.

The day Potter shows up with one of them, a flashing little monstrosity pinned upon his broad chest, is the day we both spend mostly trying not to start laughing knowingly at one another (but, to my surprise, I also discover a warm, lovely feeling spreading within my torso at the knowledge that, despite all his doubts and concerns, despite all our disagreements, he is still by my side).

* * *

_Black Rook to d6. Ah, but who cares for our lost Queen? Let them take the bait. White Pawn to d6, Rook down. Black Knight to g6. White Rook from a1 to d1. Pawn to b5 for the Blacks, followed by bishop to e6 for the Whites. Black Pawn to b4. How cute, that they think they are putting me in a difficult position. Bishop to d7; necessary sacrifices. Let them see I mean war._

The engagement of Melinda Goyle to Atreus Potter comes as a surprise to a rather large portion of England's magical population, mostly because the Goyles, a stable part of the so-called Pureblood "old guard", were always known to be very negatively predisposed towards socially progressive Muggle sympathisers, such as the horribly frumpy Potters, but also because, for quite a while, a possible upcoming engagement between the young Goyle lady and Iason Nott had been heavily whispered about.

During the next masque held by the Notts, neither the House of Crabbe nor the House of Goyle receive any invitation. Nonetheless, the grand absentee of the soiree is the House of the Malfoy, who, showing, with acts rather than words, their intense displeasure at their most loyal allies being thus shunned, shockingly and provocatively ignores the social event altogether, causing a few other minor Houses, such as the Greengrasses, to do so as well, as to show their loyalty to the Malfoys through this very act of boycott.

Almost immediately, some highly nasty rumours about Neveria Greengrass carrying a child that is not her husband's begin circulating within the dark depths of the Pureblood social circles, and the Greengrass family falls swiftly out of favour with the hard core of the Pureblood establishment, a fact which manifests, for example, when the location of the general meeting for the board of shareholders of Carrow Beast Components A.E is abruptly altered without Turius Greengrass, a large shareholder, being informed.

When the House of Greengrass sell their shares in order to place their investments with the Malfoy businesses instead, the shares are swiftly bought by the House of Black, in a manner highly hostile towards the Greengrass clan, and almost provokingly scornful.

Bait taken, mistake made; for it is always a mistake to act emotionally in the world of business and finance, I reflect with malicious glee, enjoying myself immensely while the dreadfully unprofessional behaviour of Pollux Black becomes the new subject of the slander pits forming inside clean and expensive living rooms, between tea and biscuits.

* * *

_Black Bishop to d7. Scared, defensive. They did not think I'd manage to hit so close to home. Knight to e5 for the Whites, and Castling for the Blacks. White Knight to g6, ever relentless. Black Pawn to c3, Knight falls. They think to distract me? Amusing. White Bishop to c3. I don't forgive those who cross me._

"Here, for you, my boy. Our common retired acquaintance says hello." Gag-and-Gore exclaims joyfully while mercilessly beaming upon me one of his blindingly radiant, lustrous grins, the luminosity of his teeth almost damaging my retina as I take the shabby envelop into my hands.

"_I have been watching you play, and I must admit, you are not bad at all. I will be wanting a game or two from you, whenever we next meet._

_Just don't forget when to stop," _is all it says, with ridiculously calligraphic and self-important letters that are somehow enveloping themselves with grandiose twists and curls, and while I read it out within my head, I cannot help but employ the former Dark Lord's smooth, low voice, and even more importantly, his heavy and somehow debonaire German accent.

_Sit back and enjoy the show, Lord Grindelwald; my best moves are yet to come._

* * *

_Black Queen to e4. What are they hoping to accomplish? Rook to d4 for the Whites, Queen to a2 for the Blacks, then White Rook to b4, hot on their heels. Black Bishop to e6. The air smells of fear._

It is an anonymous tip from high places that convinces Yemina Diggory, Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to conduct a large-scale inspection operation over at the Rookwood and the Macnair mansions, leading to the discovery of fifty-two illegally owned and non-declared creatures of varying degress of deadliness, including three Nundu that seem to have been conditioned into acquiring a love of human blood.

The creatures are examined by the Ministry carefully, and a panel of renowned Magizoologists is brought to offer an additional scholarly opinion on the impressive collection of dangerous beasts; the verdict reached seems to implicate the two families into the operations of the international restricted creature black market, and despite a lack of concrete proof, lavish descriptions of fiendish, bloodthirsty Nundu within the pages of the Daily Prophet are enough to shock public opinion.

In the next Wizengamot assembly, the Macnair seat remains deafeningly silent, and the Blacks lose yet another steady supporter, all while, a broad and brilliant smile plastered upon my attractive face, I lazily caress my beautiful familiar and enjoy the first frissons of my upcoming victory.

* * *

_The Whites move a Knight to e7, a hair's breath from the Black King, who moves to d7, disquieted. White Rook up to b7. How delightfully cornered, they are. Black King to d6, for the first time now realizing the genuine danger he is in._

"I'll be honest with you, Tom, I'm getting rather worried about you. This whole affair, this world of scheming and backstabbing seems to be absorbing you a little too much." the green man states with a voice deep and calm, a pair of serious, steady eyes pinned upon me, while the last rays of light creeping into the empty classroom, tinged with the pink and red hues of sunset, encircle his handsome head with a soft, illuminating halo_._

"So, then, are you not enjoying this change in the wizarding status quo? I would have thought that you, out of all people, would be passionately against the almost tyrannical rule of the ancient Pureblood aristocracy. After all, these last few days have been deliciously eventful, what with the broken engagement of Cassiope Nott and Brutus Macnair, or the highly surprising financial alliance between the Malfoys and the Prewetts... Wouldn't you agree?" I mouth cautiously but not without a hint of unnecessary snark, and I lift my frigidly blue gaze into his own brilliant oculi, the slight arc of my dark eyebrow issuing some manner of unspoken challenge.

"Tom... Yes, of course I am against this horrid regime where family names and Gringotts vaults matter more than personal merit and effort. I'm just concerned that... you're taking this too far, too fast. Power and influence or only too easy to become hooked to, and I am not willing to see you slide into such a dangerous addiction," he replies lamentably, and for a second I find myself profoundly, gut-churningly hating the sad softness of his voice, the tired beauty of his scarred features, and the silent power of his words.

"What would be_ safe_ for my soul, then? What would minimise the risks? The life of a housewife, tame and domestic as a plate? Should I, perhaps, be keeping myself busy with ironing your shirts?" I hiss, and I surprise even my own self with the sudden edge of unmasked hostility seeping through the toxicity of my tone, for I hadn't realised I've nurturing that kind of intense resentment lately.

The green man, too, seems taken aback, and there is no misidentifying the hurt and anguish flashing through his piercing stare, or the slight wincing, the tiny shivering recoil of his musculature; and thus, I experience the urge to take my needlessly venomed and vixenish words back, to mumble some form of awkward apology, only my throat feels suddenly dry and empty.

"You've asked for my trust and you still have it. But even an idealist's trust will reach its limits eventually."

The words are spoken in one of the most passionless, empty voices I've ever heard slip through his lips, and somehow this dead, arctic tone sounds terribly, horrifyingly wrong coming from him, and it feels like a vicious stab through my chest, like a physical blow causing my heart to stagger back in pitiful distress, but before I can try to utter something, before I can attempt to mend things between us, he walks away, and leaves me feeling oddly conscience-smitten.

In a desperate attempt to rid myself of this injurious, sickening sense of guilt, I command my mind off the time-traveller, and force myself to concentrate, once again, upon my game, my elegant, grand scheme, and the final phase of this invisible and yet fierce match.

* * *

_White Bishop to e5. King to c5. But the Whites have already won, have they not? Rook to c1. The Black Bishop moves to c4, a desperate attempt to support his crumbling King. And yet, moving to b4, a simple Pawn ends it. The last pillars of support taken down, the Black King takes his first dive._

_**Checkmate.**_

"Let us now vote upon the Fifth Educational Decree on the Reformation of Apprenticeships, introduced by Cygnus Black. In favour?"

Hands are raised.

"Against?"

_More_ hands are raised.

The first Wizengamot defeat of the Pureblood lobby's inner nucleus in over two centuries, I utter to myself mirthfully as my eyes scan through the Prophet, and I feel myself overwhelmed by an astoundingly intense and infinitely pleasant sensation of triumph, my fingers tingling with the intoxicating thrill of success, my eyelashes fluttering under the gentle quivering delights of glory, my nostrils flaring in delectation.

_Hmmm, what shall I do now, I wonder? It could be a beautifully opportune moment for Nero Malfoy to introduce his own Educational Decree, yes; I believe it could be easy to slip a few charming ideas through Abraxas, and reinforce them through my connections with the Goyles and the Cadhains..._

My maze-like mind, labouring under a keen, tearing thirst for more, is already filling up with fanciable, tasteful plans and recherché manoeuvres, and yet a strong, disturbed voice within me is shouting out against this, voice cracking with an increasing sense of fear.

Gellert Grindelwalds laconic, elementary warning echoes through the twisted folds of my inner world.

_Don't forget when to stop._

_Don't. forget. when. to stop._

What a most unpleasant bother, I curse viciously under my breath, that I should have to stop right now, now that the situation is getting so agreeably interesting and fresh; no, I shall have to do just a few more things, it would be a terrible shame to by-pass such a splendid opportunity to...

_I'm just worried that you might be enjoying this a bit too much. And sometimes the means become the end._

This accursed pair of emerald eyes -stern but gentle, hardened but soft, weary but bright, knowing but silent- takes over my mind again, stepping upon my plans and crushing them underfoot, reminding me with brutal intensity that I cannot afford to lose myself to the base pleasures of power, to the pursuit of influence...

An exquisitely violent conflict flowers within the desolate ruins of my mind, with two opposing forces tearing barbarically into one another, warring for dominance over me with herculean resolve; it spreads within me, and manifests itself as a vehement, fierce, stabbing pain, a savagely vicious headache burning into my temples.

_I need to sleep._ I inform myself pathetically, and I allow my lithe body to fall upon the mattress lifelessly, overcome with emotional and mental exhaustion, ravaged and worn by the ferocious battle between my predatory ambition, and my nascent moral conscience, my eyes closing swiftly.

* * *

_**I look around myself, and marvel at the luxurious splendor of the Minister's office, the burnished mahogany desk, the charming Art Deco statuettes, the dark leather sofa. **_

_**My office.**_

_**I look upon myself in the mirror, and I shudder with pleasure at my own sight, suave, refined and patrician as I look, with my neat, tasteful silken shirts and my tailored robes.**_

_**I deserve this; I worked hard to ascend to this position, I studied and trained and made connections and friendships and alliances and speeches, and it is through my own merit, my own undeniable talent that I have made it so far. A self-made man.**_

_**Harry must be proud of me, certainly, for I will bring about a world of meritocracy.**_

_**A better world.**_

_**And yet, suddenly, unforeseeably, the reflection changes, twists, crumbles, and it is not my own eyes that are looking back at me, but an inhuman pair of red, slitted orbs, decorating a pallid, gaunt, smooth face.**_

"_**Minister of Magic, huh? I'd always wanted to acquire that position openly one day. Glad you did it for us both." the reflection speaks, a low, seductive, teasing hiss full of malignant glee, and the lipless mouth fleers at me, derision and sadistic affection both intense upon the Dark Lord's features.**_

_**I recoil, wounded, and keel backwards, fury rising upon my chest.**_

"_**There is no possible comparison between us, you reptilian clown! Everything I've achieved, I achieved legally. The Wizengamot voted me to this position! I've earned this! I am nothing like you." I spit at my mocking reflection, but this parody of Voldemort keeps staring back at me with a glare both haughty and amused.**_

"_**Is this what you tell yourself to feel better, Tommy? You are everything like me. You **_**are****_ me. You and I, we played the exact same game. Only you happened to play the Whites, while, in my own timeline, I happened to play the vicious, repressed Pureblood lobby, the Blacks. A simple matter of circumstance. But you know it, and I know it, that had _you_ found yourself playing the Blacks, too, somehow, you would have played on, dear boy, for you are not playing for Potter, for meritocracy, for what's right, for change. You are playing for yourself, and for the delicious, incomparable pleasure of triumph."_**

_**Denial shoots through me with the power of an internal third degree burn.**_

"_**No." I yell out ferociously, a raw, primal sound resonating with despair and fear and ire.**_

"_**Yes. Deceiving yourself does not change the reality of your actions. At first, perhaps, you did have a cause. You did try to believe in whatever your green man believes in, and you did labour under some pitiful, misguided sense of justice. But soon enough, all that lay forgotten, no? Overwhelmed and washed away by the sheer, raw pleasure of the game, the spectacular sensation of being able to destroy a man's life with a snap of your fingers. You are me, and I am you, Tom Marvolo Riddle. You are a simply wearing a more... foppish set of garments."**_

_**I take another step back, an uncertain, wobbly step, and the incontrovertible truth of his words sinks into my chest like a knife, turning me sick to my core.**_

"_**No..." I deny again, but the pitiable weakness of my voice is already sign of his victory, and my reflection laughs at me; a laughter dry, glacial, hollow and nauseatingly loud.**_

_**Another step back, and suddenly my back thuds against a warm surface, hard and simultaneously soft, soothing, while a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around my shaking body.**_

"_**Hush. I've got you." Harry says, Harry, my damned unshakeable pylon, my accursed tower of steadiness, my bloody private messiah, my very own fuckin' pillar of morality, my undeserved salvation, my everything that's wrong with me, and right with me, and I feel hot tears flowing down my cheeks.**_

I wake up, my skin glowing with perspiration, my chest heaving unevenly, and small, frightened pants slipping through dry lips, and there is a panicked sequence of thoughts burned into my uneasy, restless, tormented mind.

_What the bloody hell have I been doing?_

_What is _wrong_ with me?_

_I completely lost control, and I didn't even realise._

_Potter's been trying to tell me, and I..._

_Fuck._

I swiftly get up and, wrapping a pair of pathwork robes around my still humid form, I run out of the Slytherin quarters, caring little about the lateness of the hour, and my uncomely, indecent behaviour and appearance.

* * *

Potter's PoV

A knock on my door tears me away from an agitated, light sleep, and mumbling something unintelligible under my breath, I walk forth and reach out for the door.

Behind it, I find Riddle, his lean body slightly shaky and shabbily wrapped in a two-a-penny set of robes, and his eyes filled with some kind of nameless fright. His smooth, pallid skin is covered in sweat, and his breaths are harsh and uneasy, his chest rising and falling sharply and shiveringly.

I feel my eyes widen somewhat at the sight.

"Harry... I hadn't even realised, I swear," he mutters, and his blue gaze is filled with a desperation strikingly deep. In all honesty, I am still fairly angry with the boy; he's done exactly what I'd told him time again to try and avoid. He's found himself charmed by the beautiful sirens of might and control, and he did tell me off quite viciously when I tried to reach out for him again.

Yes, at first, even though I was already fairly concerned, I was still largely amused at his trickery and his so insolently challenging the Pureblood status quo. However, it did not take long for me to realise that his initial cause was being gradually corrupted by the deceptive pleasures of victory, and I would have interfered before, too, had he not explicitly pleaded with me to trust him.

_But it turns out I was right to trust him, was I not?_

_He is here now, and that certainly means he has a conscience strong enough to wake him screaming at night, to shake him, and drag him to my door._

_I did not have to stop him._

_He stopped himself._

Inwardly, I smile.

"Come in," I say, wearily, but not without warmth, and I feel my eyes soften at the sight of him, looking so horrified and distraught and _sorry, _almost hysterical. I watch the wave of relief flooding his usually unreadable face, now open like a book, as he sees the fondness in my eyes, and it occurs to me that he probably thought I might have lost my faith in him entirely, and be thus unwilling to invite him in altogether. Would if I could, damn me.

"So, I take it you had some kind of revelation?" I ask in a rather cool and acerbic tone, yet without being too vitriolic, because he does not look like he'd be able to handle it. In truth, I am not half as angry and disappointed as I sound -in fact, I am infinitely glad he came here, to me, at his own free will-, but I do need for him to realise there are consequences to treating the people who care about you so badly.

The tone of my voice does, indeed, make him cringe a little. "You could say so," he replies in a surprisingly small voice, and, slowly regaining his legendary composure, he seats himself down upon one of my sofa chairs. "I... I apologise. You were right." he adds, and his voice is now calmer, more factual, closer to his usual neutral, elegant tone. His face is nearing the usual marble visage of unpiercable beauty he most often wears.

"In other news, water is wet," I retort, and even though I am aiming for mirthless sarcasm, my voice is now losing its virulent texture, and sounds mostly affectionate, tired and even a little amused. The young Slytherin, fiendishly observant as he is, detects the subtle difference, and once again, he looks strongly relieved, knowing that I am not truly angry with him.

"It was really pitiable of me to lose control like that. It was just so... exhilarating, and I..." he begins, shamefaced, with his beautiful eyes pinned onto the ground, but I quickly interrupt him.

"I know, you don't need to explain. It's like puppies, when they stop wobbling around and discover just how fast they can run. They get drunk on their own ability, start running, and they don't stop for another three months, you know."

He throws a completely incredulous look my way, but even though he does not seem to appreciate my drawing parallels between him and young canines, the corners of his lips are twitching upwards in easement. He knows we're alright again.

"I guess the term is being on a power trip. Testing out the extent of your skill and charisma on a entirely new level, and so on," I continue, in a fairly light tone, and I move to pour myself a glass of firewkiskey.

"Why didn't you interfere?" the eerily graceful young student asks, his impossibly blue eyes following the movements of my hands as I bring the glass up to my lips and take down a strong, invigorating sip.

"I would have, soon enough. But I was hoping that you'd come to your senses without my involvement. After all, you did ask me to trust you," I explain, and I throw a sideways glance towards the window for a moment, before placing my eyes onto his figure once again. He looks completely different from the quivering, shocked kid that was knocking on my door just a few minutes ago; he looks tranquil, gracious, dignified, and once again, I marvel at his unbelievable ability to stifle his own emotions, and hide himself behind a veil of perfect stillness.

"You were wrong to trust me this time, I guess," Riddle whispers, a tinge of genuine regret colouring his otherwise impersonal voice, and he brings his hand up to his face, elongated, lily-white fingers pressing against his sharp cheekbone.

"No, I was right, actually. You are proving it to me as we speak," I respond, and even though I am keenly aware of how serious this conversation is, a small part of my mind cannot help but be deplorably entranced by him, and the pure resplendence of his slightest physical move.

* * *

We sit there for a while, in the silence, and he looks pensive, a strand of dark hair resting against his pallid forehead, before he brings his gaze back onto my own, and offers me a small smile.

"We haven't had a single private lesson, lately. I've missed them," the young Slytherin observes casually, but behind the nonchalant remark, I can read the shy request. He wants things back the way they were before, I guess, which is good. It's great, in fact, I think to myself, and as my eyes rest against his smiling lips, I feel my heart thud more strongly than before.

"Yes, yes, I missed you too while you were busy playing with your new toy soldiers. Thursday, after your Charms? Room of Requirement?" I suggest as a response, and he does not try to hide his joy at my immediate offer, because, while he nods his agreement, he flashes an even wider smile at me, and by Merlin, he is criminally stunning when he curls his lips up like that. Nevertheless, his expression soon changes again, and his temporary relief deflates, and for a second, he looks almost miserable again.

"Morgana... I really did behave quite horribly, didn't I? But I swear, you were always on my mind, even when I was so fully absorbed by whatever game I was playing. Besides, I truly tried not to involve myself with anything I thought you'd ardently disapprove of," Tom Riddle mumbles, running his fingers through his glossy hair, and biting his lower lip.

_I am always on your mind, Riddle? You're making me blush._

"So, my personal moral code has been serving as your moral compass, because you lack a natural one. I am not sure if I should feel flattered, or worried," I chuckle bitterly, and I sip some more firewiskey. He lets out a sharp breath of simultaneous mild amusement and misery, something close to a self-hating snicker, but says nothing.

"Can I have a glass, too?" he eventually asks, his eyes pointing at the heavy alcoholic beverage.

"Tom, you are fourteen, for hell's sake!" I exclaim indignantly, frustrated by the young man's tendency to ask for things that are gravely inappropriate for his biological age. He lifts an elegant eyebrow at my miniature outburst, and he tilts his head with evident curiosity.

"So, I am old enough to completely disrupt the balance of powers within the Wizengamot, to get friendly with a retired Dark Lord, to be passionately kissed by a war-weary time-traveler ten years my elder, to be having gory nightmares about my possibly homicidal future self, but you're going to deny me a glass of bloody firewhiskey? Are trying to be funny, Potter?" he asks, umbrageous and exasperated, and his mouth twists in mock vexation.

"Point taken," I mutter, in humorous resignation, and I pour a glass of firewhiskey for my young guest. "So, I'm glad your little power trip is done with. The two old geezers and I have been waiting on you," I state lightly, as if to make smalltalk about the weather.

"Waiting on me? I am not sure I understand what could have possibly been waiting on me for," the charismatic young student answers, his features expressing a rather strong degree of curiosity, and his rosy lips breaking into a small, interested smirk. When he brings the glass up to his lips and takes down a considerable sip of alcohol, I expect him to grimace a little. He doesn't; he swallows the strong drink with worrisome ease, as if he's spent years gulping down the bloody stuff, and his self-satisfaction is unnerving me.

"We're going Hallow hunting," I point out, and sit back onto my own armchair, waiting for the slight surprise to colour his statue-like visage.

"Hallow hunting?"

"Yes. I've already gathered two of them all by myself," I note in a feigned casual tone, not without a tinge of cheeriness, inwardly smirking at his unsuppressible surprisal. It is, true, too. The cloak was quite easy to acquire, since Charlus Potter had absolutely no idea just how valuable his little prank accessory was, and exchanging it with a few impressive and expensive trinkets was less than a challenge. I still do feel somewhat guilty about tricking the boy that way, though, and I'll make sure to return the Hallow when I no longer need it. As for the stone... I simply stole it. I did not want to involve Riddle with the Gaunts; he's had enough family reunions as it is.

"You have found two Hallows in less than a month?" he asks, almost dumbly, and I can tell his competitive spirit is awakening, his eyes narrowing with frustration.

"That's nothing. I know someone who brought the Wizengamot upside down in less than a month," I smoothly reply, directly appeasing his childishly sensitive sense of pride. Nice save, I congratulate myself inwardly, as I watch his face soften in glee.

"Two Hallows, and you didn't even miss a single day of school," he repeats again, this time with a large smile shimmering on his face, and he nods ever so slightly, as if to express his inner approval for his personal choice of infatuation.

"I do have to somehow fill the unbearable emptiness the lack of your awkwardly snogging me under the starry sky has left behind, you know," I murmur teasingly, and Merlin knows I have been eagerly awaiting the moment I'd be able to use these words against him like that; and even though I am sure I'm being fairly immature, I'm feeling oddly proud of my witty comeback. He chuckles openly, genuinely, something I haven't seen him do in quite a while.

"Using my own words against me, huh? I'm rubbing off on you, Potter. I thought the point here was for _you_ to rub off on _me_ instead?" the ridiculously attractive student observes with affectionate sarcasm dripping between his parted lips, and then he takes a few more sips of firewhiskey, his cheeks flushing a little due to the heat of alcohol. What an inocoriggible little devil, I think to myself, exasperated; a mere hour ago he was shivering pitiably outside my quarters, and now he is drinking my alcohol and flirting with me shamelessly.

"It's bound to go both ways, I assume," I mussitate in resignation, and let out a supposedly profound and pain-filled sigh.

* * *

Suddenly, his expression changes once more, and shifts back to the undecipherable, blank mask he so often tends to wear, his eyes now alight with some new concern and, placing his glass onto the little wooden table between our seats, he sits up, and walks towards me.

"Harry..." he begins, but his voice trails, faltering, and I instantly know he is about to tackle a serious subject. He never uses my first name like that, like a plea, not unless he is either under the influence of a strong emotion, or trying to say something that is difficult for him to say. "I just need you to understand I... I'm sorry. I can't even understand how I ended up getting so utterly absorbed by this whole business... It was more than just a power trip. I just needed..."

His eyes drop to the floor, covered by the long, thick, charcoal eyelashes, and his lower lip quivers ever so slightly. He seems to be having a hard time putting his thoughts or feeling into words, which is very unusual for the eloquent, silver-tongued Slytherin.

"After this trip, you know, visiting my adoptive father, and then the Riddles, and you, outside, that evening, and... I just felt as if I was becoming an entirely different person, filled with trivial, petty desires, and basic, domestic ambitions. I believe I was really frightened by that... and... I want to be myself, Potter. For all my flaws, I enjoy being ambitious, and I enjoy being despotic. I don't want..." he mutters some more, and I feel my chest constrict with compassion, for, even as he is frowning and obviously unable to formulate whatever he is trying to tell me properly, I am mostly catching the meaning of his words.

"It was the weapon of my childhood, you know. The thought of being different, superior, of being unlike this pitiable mass of worms. It was the thought that gave me strength, and allowed me to rationalise all the ugly things in this world. And now, suddenly... There's a part of me that wants nothing more than a modest, low-profile career, and a house on a hilltop, with you, and all our power and our magic kept private, just for us... And it disgusts me, that I would be so... so commonplace, so vulnerable to the same pathetic dreams of a happy fuckin' ending that every little damn teenager thinks of at night, and I..."

"I think this whole political match was merely an effort to prove to myself that I am still uniquely me," he finishes, and our faces are inches apart now, his hands gripping the arms of my sofa chair, and his slender body hanging just above mine. His eyes, though, are neither seductive not predatory; they emit a strange, piercing sense of urgency and need.

_It makes sense._

"_What would be safe for my soul, then? What would minimise the risks? The life of a housewife, tame and domestic as a plate? Should I, perhaps, be keeping myself busy with ironing your shirts?", he'd said during that verbal spar of ours._

_It was not me he was lashing out against, it was his own fear of being a nobody, of settling for less, of drowning tamely into the plebe._

_These were the thoughts he was trying to keep his mind free of._

_It was a show of power indeed, but he was both the spectacle _and_ the intended audience._

_It makes so much freakin' sense, in his own twisted, sick, disturbed, Tom fuckin' Riddle way._

_He's just afraid of what he feels._

_Aren't we all, at some point or another?_

"...I suppose that makes sense, in some twisted, deranged way," is all I manage to say, and I can feel my eyes prickling a little, which is sad in too many ways, that I would still be so emotional after having torn men limb to limb in the bloody battlefields, time after time.

"Can I kiss you?" he mouths almost breathlessly, and between the folds of his cheap robes, I can see a slice of his white chest heaving. His long, curving eyelashes are flittering, and his heart is palpitating, the beats audible, and so irresistibly, so terribly close to me. His breath smells of firewhiskey, but I am well-aware that he is fully sober.

I want to say no, at first, because it's obviously not the right time for this; this is more than stealing a chaste kiss in a corridor. This is intense, and private, and overly emotional.

_No, please, Riddle. I can't..._

But, curse him to all oblivion, he is never as difficult to reject, as difficult to resist, as when he is so utterly vulnerable, so conquerable and open and defenseless, with his lip quivering, his hair tussled and his body warm.

My fingers wrap around the fabric of the robe, and the gentle pull on his collar is all the permission he needs to lean in.


	45. Chapter 45

Disclaimer: If I could own someone, it wouldn't be Harry or Tom. It would be a young Minerva, and then I'd never, ever leave the house again.

A/N: Here I whine about my dying mother, the difficulty of Law school, and apologise profusely. I also have many replies to things reviewers point out (for example, yes, I know Germans don't end up every sentence with "ja?" and so on, I grew up in Luxembourg for heaven's sake! Gellert is a weird, creepy, eccentric fucker with a weird accent, he does not represent your average German, just like the guy who ends all his sentences with "m'kay?" and mumbles weirdly in South Park is not an accurate portrayal of how all Americans speak). But since I unfortunately can't reply to all reviews right here (I used to, but now that I have so many...), if you need an answer send a pm, I always reply to those.

Furthermore, I want to thank the people who have offered to translate Wand Cores in Russian and Chinese. Even if they don't actually manage, what with Riddle's horribly purple language, it's the thought that counts. ;)

Also, thanks, once again, to everyone who ever reviewed or favourited or did anything nice ever. I mean related to this fic, though, doesn't count if you walked an old lady across the street today. Or actually it does, I thank those people, too, they're effing cool.

Now lets move onto the **considerable plot advancement, yay! **It seems that this fic will be no longer than 52 chapters after all. Only a slash fic as lengthy as Tolstoy' s War and Peace. I have no life.

* * *

Chapter 45

Potter's PoV

The very next day happens to be a Friday, and between Riddle's Astronomy and Charms, I conveniently and not entirely accidentally find myself in the right corridor at the right time, waiting for him to walk by. I stand there mostly because I need to let him know we are meant to be meeting Albus and Gellert later today, to investigate a lead on Gregorovic and the Elder Wand, or at least one of them, since there are very likely two of these damned deathsticks. However, and to be honest with myself, I also want to see how he's faring, after his little revelation and subsequent breakdown last night.

_A little breakdown that somehow led to your being straddled by a slightly tipsy fourteen year-old boy atop a velvet armchair, with whom you then snogged passionately, before you had to pretty much forcibly tear him off you and urge him to return to his dorm._

_Merlin, Harry, just what the bleeding hell are you doing?_

_Talking to myself and guilt-tripping, apparently, and it's probably not the right moment for that. Feeling like a miserable ephebophile is more of a 10pm and after two glasses of firewhiskey sort of activity._

I am fortunately snapped out of an unnecessary internal dialogue by the criminally beautiful young Slytherin himself, who sure enough bumps into me on his way to Charms, and surprises me by immediately tugging at my sleeve, something that is definitely not typical for the prematurely cynical and detached young man. One look into his eyes is enough to detect the urgency and slight tinge of fear there, and at once I am not an awkward teaching assistant goofing around in a corridor, but a weathered, wary wizard, my senses keen, heightened, and focused on the boy.

I don't need to ask him what's wrong verbally, we are certainly beyond that. I just look at him, my brow creasing the tiniest bit in worry, lips thinning, and this slight change in my facial expression is enough for him. He can easily deduce I've noticed his unusual agitation, and that I'm waiting for an explanation.

"A dream," he provides, and I am about to exhale in relief, since neither of us are strangers to disturbing nightmares. As scarring and terrible as they might be, they are still only figments of our imaginations, and creations of our troubled minds.

"But not like the others, Potter. I noticed something, this time, and if I'm right... We need to talk in private right now, and since with grades and acting skills like mine, I can easily afford to skip a lesson or two, could you just..." he whispers discreetly when the other students passing by aren't watching, and my relief is cut short at his hushed but grave and disquieted tone. It takes a lot to perturb someone as wicked and poised as Riddle, someone who, while kids his age are giggling and playing Quidditch and getting infantuated, is busy pulling the strings in the Wizengamot, so this does not bode well.

* * *

We turn left into a less frequented corridor, badly lit and narrow, and as soon as we are out of sight, I grab his slim arm and Apparate us out of the castle. We pop into the middle of the small meadow next to the lake, where we'd practiced our collaborative, signature-merging spells more than a few times. before "I was looking for you to let you know that a friendly couple of old lunatics is inviting us to help them follow a lead on a Hallow later today," I state as soon as the split second required to shrug off the unpleasantness of side-apparition has passed.

"Ah. Well, I wouldn't miss that for anything in the world," he replies lightly, his rose-coloured lips twitching a bit upwards, but the amusement seems forced, and uneasy. The more I realise just how genuinely shaken he appears to be by whatever dream he had, the more a profound sense of foreboding grips my insides into a tight clutch.

"Tell me," I say.

"Remember how we'd wondered about how my dreams could possibly include information from your war and post-war timeline, information that I could not possibly have had access to? We had concluded that it must be due to the signature-blending bond, through which apparently not only some minute faction of our emotional responses are shared, but also slithers of memory or thought can seep through."

I nod, bringing back to mind all our thoughts and conclusions on how this residual bonding can affect our interactions. Including that our dreams can be, to a certain degree, mutually influenced.

"Well, I was not entirely convinced back then, either. An increased sensitivity to each other's emotional state due to the almost complete coincidence between the nature of the structure of our magical cores is one thing, and it certainly is the case, but the accidental sharing of actual concrete information, such as the specifics of Lord Voldemort's physical appearance, seem too much to have simply quietly crept from your mind to mine through a residual signature-blending bond. I did not give it too much thought at the time, since we were both relatively busy dealing with a lot of other, perhaps more pressing, issues, but..."

The sudden formality, long sentences and generous use of terminology are a clear sign that Tom is trying to distance himself from whatever apprehension or dread he is feeling. And in order for him to have to resort to that kind of defensive mechanism, he must be pretty darn uneasy, I conclude, feeling my own concern grow.

"But now I am forced to re-evaluate this entire hypothesis. What if, indeed, the signature-blending is responsible for the emotional projections alone, something which seems likely if one examines the magical structure of the residual bonding spell. What if the fact you had access to images and information from within your timeline's Voldemort's mind was actually only due to your being his Horcrux, and not due to the magical twinning?"

I am not unintelligent. In fact, thanks to the complicated, difficult life I've had to deal with, as well as my constant interaction with Hermione, Minerva, and other incredible minds, I think I have grown quite sharp, and not without a considerable talent for magical theory. Still, I am having a really hard time understanding where Riddle is going with this, and what exactly he's trying to say.

_Nowhere pleasant, that much I can tell._

"But Tom... In this timeline, I do not carry a Horcrux of yours in me. If the impact of the signature-blending is reserved to emotional projection and magical merging or spell-weaving, and not actual visualized thought projection, how is it that your dreams in **this** timeline include images from **my** timeline? It _must_ be the bond. Occam's razor..."

"Occam's razor is not always accurate, Potter. Often, but not always. We live in a labyrinthine world where the elegant explanation is not always the right one, unfortunately. And that dream last night..." his eyes, so unbelievably blue and gleaming intensely, flick to the side, and I can almost swear that his silky skin is paler than usual, his jaw tighter.

_This certainly does not bode well._

_Not well at all._

* * *

"Tell me, how much detail did you have access to, concerning Voldemort's activities? Do you know which exact experiments he used to conduct in attachment spells, and how exactly he would organise and encrypt his research notes, and which specific books and parchments he'd use for reference? Would you know, for example, that he used a man named Avery to try a variation of a magical attachment mechanism used in feudal Europe to tie farmers to their lords, the details of which he found in a 1632 monastical manuscript from Nancy, France? Would you know that he took advantage of the triskaidekaphobia of a witch named Murphy in order to try a fear-based blood ritual depicted in some early Aztec carvings discovered in the early 20's, but initially mistook the midday symbol for a full moon symbol, leading to a small error that stripped her of her sanity entirely, after which he had her disposed of by a Death Eater named Arion?"

He is speaking way too fast, his composure evidently slipping, even though his sentences are still perfectly structured and flawlessly syntaxed.

_Magic help me, I think I know where this is going._

I draw a deep breath, keeping my voice calm. "No, Tom, I wouldn't know such details. I don't even know what triskai-something-phobia means, other than it being a something-phobia."

"I thought so," he whispers, and the muscles of his exquisite face clench, eyes closing for a second in distraught resignation. He remains silent for a while, and I decide not to break said silence with any of the obvious questions (_How do _you_ know of these things, then? Why would you dream about __that? Where does you think these images come from, if not from me? Are you sure these are things that actually happened in my timeline, and not just your own projections?_), since he's surely thought of all of these and more already.

"The dream was meant to tempt me into the path of becoming Voldemort, I think. Show me how I could enjoy endless academic freedom, how I could carry my research free of moral constraints and laws, attract me with promises of a fascinating life spent exploring the limits of magic, while skipping the details of insanity, sadism and war. It showed me flashes of this, because it was believed that would be what I'd want to see."

"But whoever engineered this dream underestimated me, obviously, even though he knew me well enough to know the kind of life that could possibly tempt me, and that could have certainly appealed to me a lot a year ago. He thought the allure of these visions would distract me from the alarming data they provided. Perhaps he did not take into account _your_ influence on my personality as much as he should have?"

His fist is tight, I notice, long fingers curled and nails digging into his skin.

"If I am reading this right... Then he was arrogant and made a mistake, Potter. Thank Morgana. He gained nothing from showing me this, but he lost his element of surprise, and so we might have a chance still, as long as we discover in time how he managed to get here, and just what he is trying to do."

_Details neither of us could have known._

_Someone tempting him._

_Information only Voldemort himself could have access to._

_Someone who would know exactly what would appeal to a fourteen year old Tom Riddle, but not be able to calculate properly what _my _influence on the young man could be. (Because when _he_ was the fourteen year old Riddle, I was not there, was I?)_

_Oh, for..._

_Please, no._

_Please._

_I am so tired. I am too tired for this, I'm just too tired..._

"What you are implying here is that, what, my own time's Voldemort is somehow trying to establish a connection with you?" I ask, and suddenly I feel infinitely weary, and jaded, and hardened, because in its own, twisted way, it makes sense, that I would never be allowed to rest, being the Chosen One, that I would forever be trapped in an endless war against him, a war over Hogwarts, over Britain, over my own mind, over Tom's soul, over the very gears of life and death.

_I could try pointing out that he is dead (but is he, truly?), that I have defeated him, and he is over with._

_I could try to argue that there is no way in hell he could be here, anyway._

_But deep in my gut, I can't discard the possibility. He always finds me, doesn't he?_

_Somehow, it would make sense, and there are some faint memories in my mind, some details I might have noticed but cannot consciously remember, some signs I might have seen but did not give much thought to, that just make me sick to my stomach, because they say yes, of course, Harry, why did you not think about this before?_

"How?" I inquire, not questioning the plausibility of Riddle's suspicion _(even though I want to, and I wish I could say No no no I have done this before, just let me be, trying to love this boy is hard enough, no more war, Merlin, please)_, but accepting the possibility and simply asking for the rest of his conjecture. I feel my face lock into a dark, cold expression of gravity, my war mask. "How?"

"I have a theory. But I need to talk to Dumbledore."

"We will be meeting him later today, anyway, but I think this is a bit of an emergency. I should go fetch him from his office in the castle," I reply, without much feeling, the weight of the world settling heavily on my shoulders once again.

I feel his inquisitive, observant gaze run over my face, my pained frown, my worn-out eyes, worried.

* * *

Before I turn to Apparate, the young man takes a step towards me and grabs my sleeve. He pulls me closer to him, until I am but a few inches away from his breathtaking, sculpted face, the raven waves of his meticulously styled hair, and the insufferable temptation of his lips. Once again, he examines me, my expression, trying to read me like one of his rare tomes, and seems troubled.

"A few months ago I might have enjoyed the thought, you know. Life was so dull for me sometimes, a showdown with my own twisted self could have sounded like a welcome challenge. But I don't think that way anymore. My life is never tedious, now that you have stepped into it, and I have no desire to risk losing you, or myself. I **want** to be wrong about this, Harry. I want to be wrong as much as you want me to be wrong. But if I'm not wrong..."

A small, pensive pause before he continues, during which, briefly, his eyes look to the ground. _Yes, please call me Harry more often, _I think to myself.

"I'm sure you feel like you've paid your due in pain, like you've seen enough Avadas for a lifetime, and maybe I _can_ outsmart him, beat him by myself, and I do hate to ask this of you, but I'd perhaps still feel somewhat safer if..." he whispers close to my ear, and even though this is definitely not the right moment, I feel the tiniest hint of arousal at his physical closeness, and his connoted plea. I hold back a mirthless, silent chuckle, as I realise why he is saying his.

_He saw my weariness, and misinterpreted it as unwillingness to fight for his sake. How loveable. Does he really not realise just how much I care for him?_

My skin feels oddly rough against him as I bring my finger to his chin, as if to lift his head towards mine. His beauty is almost painful to the eye when he is so close.

_Why is it so attractive to me when he is insecure? Vulnerable? Pleading? Is there still a tiny, fucked-up part of me that is drawing some vengeful pleasure out of the thought of him squirming under me, needing me, begging me, he who in another timeline destroyed my life so utterly?_

_And yet, Merlin, I love him already, almost unconditionally... I'd give my soul for him in a heartbeat._

_Bloody heavens, this life has made a monstrous contradiction out of me._

"I'm hurt you'd believe for a single second that if some surviving part of his is after you, I'll sit idly by and wait to see who'll rise a victor, Tom. Besides, you are right. After all the selfless suffering I've generously provided for the amusement of whatever higher power there might be, I definitely deserve my happy ending, and I want it to be you. I demand a trophy for all my hard work as a saviour, you know. I'm not going to let anyone spoil this for me," I reply, smirking involuntarily as I feel his breath against my semi-exposed neck.

_Yes, it's best to say something meaningless, a bad joke like that, than to say you fool, you idiot, you brilliant, insane boy, I'd fight with you, for you, as long as it takes, and against anyone that may come. How the hell have you not noticed that I'm genuinely, stupidely in love with you?_

_Are you not meant to be a prodigy?_

"So, I am hypothesising that a powerful and clever Dark Lord is very possibly inexplicably here and after me, which could lead to death or irreversible mental or physical damage to either one or both of us, and your reaction is to jest about being willing to fight again as long as you are rewarded with an adolescent sociopath to keep as a well-deserved trophy?" he asks me, entertained, and my gaze falls onto his upwards-quivering lips, as well as his eyes, that soften as he speaks, brimming with affection (_affection; it still looks so alien on his so often icy or scornful face_).

"I spent most of my life expecting to be killed by Voldemort by the end of the year. You learn to live with it."

He leans in to kiss me, but I Apparate out of his way just in time to miss the physical contact and subsequent untimely wave of raging desire it would bring. Nevertheless, despite us parting on a joke and a kiss, my entire being is painfully aware that this is no laughing matter at all, and that Albus needs to be fetched as soon as possible.

_Here we go again._

_Well, what was I expecting, a steady job and a slowly blossoming albeit dysfunctional romance? My life is an action novel, not a Harlequin._

* * *

Albus' PoV

As soon as I hear this odd creaking behind me, I spring to action.

In seconds, my wrist is flicking backwards while I cast a leg-binding spell, while my left hand is drawing my wand out of its holster, while my knees bend, improving my balance, all while I sweep around to kick my opponent's foot.

In seconds, I am standing next to Harry Potter, who has managed to dodge my spell, but not my low kick, and is now lying on the floor, hair messy and limbs in awkward positions.

_Well, that was anti-climactic._

"War reflexes," I state, and offer a sheepish, apologetic smile. He does not seem angry with me, however. Actually, he appears to be chortling for a moment, and then he swiftly takes my hand and springs back up, dusting his clothes.

"No worries, Albus, it happens to me all the time," he says, still smiling, and I am pleased to see he is finding my violent reflexes very endearing. "This friend, Seamus, I actually broke his wrist that way, once." he adds distractedly, his gaze staring into an imaginary horizon, as if to recall the good old times, and I pat his back, thinking he is a terribly sweet boy.

"But that's not what you are here for, is it, Harry?"

The bittersweet, nostalgic smile on his face recedes, and his eyes darken a little. Oh dear. I bring my hand up to scratch my beard pensively, and I wonder if whatever is troubling him is related to his damaged young protégé. I admire him very strongly for having the courage to give his heart away on such uncertain grounds, and even though I trust he will manage to save the boy from the darkness, I still find myself concerned for them both at times.

I mean, even Fawkes is concerned for them, and everyone who knows that phoenix will probably tell you he is one of the most devil-may-care legendary beasts ever.

"Tom has a theory. I think he might be overreacting, but if there is even a small chance he might be right... He wants to talk to you."

"Lead the way."

* * *

Seconds later, we are in the middle of a meadow, and the boy stands a few feet away from us, his usually neatly parted hair blown around by the winter breeze. He does not have Gellert's strongly playful attitude, but otherwise he sometimes really reminds me of him when he, too, was young, with his unsettling beauty and his tangled mind. And the weirdly thin calves.

Despirte that, or perhaps because of that, I never trusted him, I must admit. I'd always sensed that his soul was badly bruised and marred, perhaps beyond salvation, and that his fascination with death and power could only take him to dark, brutal places. But now, with Harry's presence molding him, shattering and regluing him, he seems to be finally healing a little, even if it is painfully slow. And I find myself caring for him beyond the way I care for all students anyway (and I do, I care for each and every one), and not solely because of his relation to Harry.

_Growing soft in old age, maybe. Getting all paternal._

_On deranged Slytherins that clearly detest you, too; how fantastic._

"Harry said you have a worrisome theory to share. But I think it best to discuss such grave matters over tea and biscuits, no? And perhaps Gellert might be of help, too, if you do not mind letting him know as well., I suggest, smiling as brightly as I can at the troubled student, and for a moment he seems a little exasperated, breathing out slowly in response. He must not like biscuits, I conclude.

"...Why not. Lets take this conversation to the cottage, then," Tom Riddle consents hesitantly, his features not exactly brimming with excitement and enthusiasm. Fortunately, he is probably too washed out by general fatigue to argue.

"Jolly good, my boy," I exclaim, and walk towards the young student extending my hand, to have him Apparate with me. Instinctively, he takes a step back (and since I don't believe I've grown very terrifying as of late, it's safe to assume he has a general distaste for getting close to people).

"Since I've been there before, I think I'll manage to Apparate alone. I can handle anything but those fiendishly convoluted Hogwarts wards, which I leave for Potter, for the time being." he explains, flashing a tiny, apologetic smile full of charm and social charisma. He is an incredible actor, this boy, I note to myself, suddenly remembering his convincingly impassioned speeches in defense of Dippet's position when the Blacks tried to have him removed. His "Hands Off Dippet" badge is still glistening on his robes. The deceptions of venus flytraps pale in comparison.

Behind us both, Harry is, for some reason, rolling his eyes.

"Jolly good!" I simply repeat, and pop back home.

* * *

Tom's PoV

"You're somevhat early, ya?" the tall, elegant wizard observes as we enter the house, in this blasé but playful tone he so often uses, looking up from his fungus-infested tome (Ernaldius' "Regina Alchemica", original written in 1587, a late 18th century hand-copy, I note with interest and envy) and pushing a lock of greying golden hair behind his ear. There's something distinctly feline about the way his thin lips spread to reveal the tiniest bit of pearly tooth, but I wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly what it is that drives me to this comparison.

"We won't be leaving to investigate that Mongolian witch's lead on Gregorovic's whereabouts just yet, I'm afraid. Young Riddle here has some concerns he wishes to discuss with us first, that's why we came early." the aging coot provided helpfully, sounding inappropriately delighted, as though he was receiving a social visit from the muggle Queen herself, and then he sped off to the kitchen, presumably to prepare tea and an assortment of sickly sweet and barely edible nonsense.

The green man greets the retired Dark Lord with slightly awkward joviality and a muttered "hey", and sits himself at the opposite end of the large, burnt sienna-coloured dinner table, before turning his eyes and smile towards me and moving the chair next to his from under said table, so that I may sit next to him.

"Good afternoon." I say, my voice perfectly polite as I offer the blond wizard a curt nod, reminding myself that it is imperative I stay on the good side of this seemingly mismatched and queer, but also incredibly powerful couple of bizarre magicians. His discomforting, predatory smile turns into a grin, not bright and cheerful as his lover's ones, but dark and knowing, the tenebrific, ocean-blue eyes following me with interest as I sit myself by the time-traveller.

"I vill trust my advice reached you in time, ya?" he asks, innocuously, but his stare remains uneasily intense, and Potter must have noticed it (whether subconsciously or not, I cannot tell), because he shifts his body and chair a bit, moving closer to me, protectively.

Even though I theoretically know that he is strongly attracted to me and genuinely fond of me both, it does fill me with guilty pleasure every time he reacts that way, especially in this case, since I know that he, too, disapproved of the way I took my delicious, scacchic political machinations a little too far, and yet he seems ready to defend these very choices he did not approve of, when opposition rises from a third party.

_Put shortly, I feel a childish spark of satisfaxtion when this fascinating man appears possessive of me._

_And an unhealthy dose of smugness, as well._

However, this is not the time to trigger a conversation on my little Wizengamot tricks and gimmicks, so I resist the strong desire to respond in a sharp, offensive manner, pointing out that I neither want nor need anyone to explain my limits to me, just to see if Potter would still be willing to defend me in case I consciously chose to act scathing and aggressive.

Instead, as flawlessly collected and poised as ever, a offer a small, charming smirk and respond with a "Yes, thank you. I hope it was entertaining to watch. But there's really something else I need to talk about."

I guess that the green man, in his infallible sentimentality, must believe me to be hugely distressed, for I suddenly discover his hand on my lower thigh, and it is something I can only read as a slightly misguided attempt to emotionally support me as I go through a supposedly painful revelation, since he would never choose to initiate anything physical between us in front of an audience. Nevertheless, all it actually accomplishes is filling my mind with hazy but vivid flashes of straddling him on that comfortable sofa chair, of his fingers grabbing my collar and pulling me in, of my own fingers gliding through his gorgeously disheveled hair, his rough lips...

_It's absolutely disgusting that someone as exceptional and brilliant as I am should have to suffer through the same hormonal effects of adolescence as all these base, bland, plebeian morons do._

_Well, at least there is some consolation in the fact that the target of my desire is quite exceptional himself._

I let out a small cough.

* * *

"As I was saying, there is an issue I really would appreciate some opinions on." I state, in a serious, clinically factual voice, shaking the shameful pang of craving off me, just as Grapple-lore returns with the tea (and a set of hideously turquoise porcelains). "I had a dream last night that I do not believe was parented by own mind, since it contained images and information I could not possibly have access to. After having given it some thought, I have come to believe it was cleverly designed by someone with a considerable understanding of my ambitions and desires in order to lure me into a specific set of actions."

A detailed image of my alternate future self, his lids heavy with excitement and luxuriation as he hisses some obscure incantation, haunts my mind, and I attempt to distract myself by examining fastidiously the gaudy cup within which my tea is served, noting that what I previously thought was yellow polka dots is actually decorative lemons.

"I am aware that it might seem like a bit of a leap in rational thought, to so swiftly conclude this dream to have been staged, but I simply _know_ I am right. Which leads to the following question. Who could have done something like that? Since I am a rather accomplished Occlumens, it would have to be someone who can either break through my mental walls, or someone who is otherwise somehow connected to me. Furthermore, it would have to be someone who holds very intimate knowledge of my academic ambitions and fascinations, but who also has access to knowledge from the future of an alternate timeline, including rituals and spell research that has not been carried out as of yet. Lastly, it would have to be someone who believes they would benefit directly or indirectly from my turning even more heavily towards the study of the Dark Arts, and tossing aside any ethical dilemma or emotional attachment I might be having."

Potter's wind-inured hand is still sitting firmly but gently above my knee, and somehow, his gesture is beginning to actually meet its purpose, offering me a nameless and silent brand of comfort I was not even remotely aware I might need.

I draw a deep but soundless breath and prepare for the final step of my little explanation, only to be abruptly interrupted by the outré Transfiguration Master, who has so far been sipping his peppermint beverage most merrily, occasionally inserting oddly-coloured and untrustworthy-looking sweets into his mouth.

"I presume, my boy, that you believe the culprit might be the Dark Lord Voldemort, as he evolved in Harry's timeline, then. Yes, it is indeed quite possible. The man, if he can even be called that after the horrors he inflicted upon his soul, did not exactly die, from what I saw within Harry's mind. So I guess what you are really trying to ask here is, can one escape from this state-of-being we chose to call limbo? And could my counterpart have known something about this? Could Harry's presence in this timeline be associated with Voldemort's possible leap?"

_Yes, that is exactly it, you insufferable, morbidly irksome spook, lulling us with your kitsch teapots, your amicable, too-brilliant smiles and your eccentric ticks into forgetting just how frightfully cunning and observant you are, just so you can then show-off when an opportune moment arises._

When I realise my lips have parted a little in involuntary and embarrassing amazement, I snap my jaw back up with a vengeance, vehemently refusing to be impressed by the cheap mental tricks of a man who owns lavender robes with peacock and tulip patterns.

"Yes, these are pretty much the questions I have been deliberating on," I respond with astonishing maturity and civility, even though I am now secretly imagining the aging wizard choking on his hideous confections, and drawing great pleasure from that vindictive childish activity. However, it soon occurs to me once again that the situation we might possibly be facing could be not only difficult to resolve, but potentially dangerous, even life or sanity threatening, and that I can certainly not afford to be pitifully juvenile, not even for a second.

"Ever since I found out I might have been the one to send Harry here, I have been wondering why I would choose to do so. I'd never send a young man who has suffered so much in another timeline to fix my own mistakes. Nor do I think I'd have reason to believe he would he happier here than he was in his own time. I did see Voldemort, trapped in limbo, inside Harry's mind, and I did wonder if he could be part of my counterpart's reasoning, because little else would make sense. That's why I'd been expecting this conversation, dear." he explains, and the way he molds his words into something akin to an apology means he has noticed my childish anger at his previous astuteness, and that somehow bothers me even more, and causes me to feel a little humiliated.

_A sliver of a twisted, damaged, malevolent soul trapped in limbo. Could it be that this surviving shard of Voldemort escaped towards a timeline in which he is still young, in order to pave his road to victory this time, and that the Double-bore residing in limbo somehow sent the green man after him, since he is the wizard who defeated him the first two times, as well?_

_But that does not sound too plausible. As powerful and intelligent as Lord Voldemort might have possibly been, I doubt such a small and wounded soul fragment could manage to tear the very fabric of time and space, and make it here entirely unaided. _

_Could the coot have been the one to bring Voldemort here, and then have proceeded to also transporting Potter, so that my future self can finally be vanquished in the plane of being, instead of perpetually existing within the plane of limbo?_

_If that was the case, why bring them both here, in the 40's, and not just bring the piece of Voldemort back to the future material world where Potter initially resided, so that Potter, might finally find a way to destroy him there?_

_There must be some crucial element of this puzzle that I am still missing._

"Of course. Pulling my strings still, from far beyond the grave; I should have definitely seen that one coming," mutters the teaching assistant jokingly, an awkward, lopsided, half-smile emerging on the ruggedly handsome face, but his brilliant eyes clouded with a veil of probably involuntary resentment, and the tendons along his neck tensing defensively. I had definitely noticed that Potter held the auburn-haired oddball in extremely high regard, and had vast affection and admiration for him, but never before had I seen signs that their mentor-student relationship might have had its own shady sides and bumps, even though I can definitely understand how the time-traveller might have felt slightly used, from what I know of his tumultuous life.

"But I'm still not sure why you'd send me here, Albus. Did you simply send me after Voldemort, trusting me to defeat him, or at least contain him, since I know him so well? That would make sense, I guess; Chosen One and all, I certainly have a great CV in waging wars and fighting against this particular madman. Still, I can't see how the bloody heck he could have managed to escape limbo as a deformed, stunted shard of malice. Or why he wouldn't have shown himself to Riddle or try to possess him before I came into the picture so strongly, for that matter."

_Sound questions, I am most interested in any theories as to why..._

_Oh._

_Oh..._

_Of course._

_Morgana, how exquisitely clever._

_Ah!_

* * *

"The magical twinning spell residue, Potter; the bond! _You can only have one at a time_! The fact you share one with me right now, can only mean that the one you shared with Voldemort has been severed! Dumbledore brought you here, in a timeline were a version of Tom Riddle would exist without one of Harry Potter having been born yet, so that the moment you entered this time-space isle, my open-ended signature-blending spell would attach itself on to you, and when, a second later, when the Voldemort shard would follow you through the cracks, desperate to escape its prison, you'd already be bonded elsewhere. And thus, without the Horcrux connection, or the residual blending, you are finally in a setting where you can kill him as you would kill any other man!" I blurt out quickly and excitedly, almost without drawing breath, my hands gesturing wildly and my gaze never leaving Potter's own admittedly stunning emerald eyes.

He stares at me with a frozen expression of awe (or is it pride?), presumably struck by the sharpness and creativeness of my mind, and, even though it pains me a little to say so, I have to admit to feeling flooded by a warm feeling of self-importance at having managed to impress him so.

_I regress mentally every moment I remain infatuated with this man, damn me; I would have never tolerated experiencing that kind of pathetic feeling a few months ago._

The two older wizards also seem somewhat impressed, a small, amused smirk playing on Grindelwald's angular visage, while Pebble-floor is munching on a cookie distractedly and pensively, evidently deliberating on my clever little theory.

"Although, really, a man who weaves such a convoluted and complex scheme with other people's lives must truly be quite the manipulative mastermind," I add in a much quieter, slower voice, a very clean and clear jab towards the strange Professor, because for some inexplicable reason, the hint of bitterness and weariness behind Potter's previous comment struck a nerve in me; as hypocritical as that might be, of course, seeing as I myself tend to toy with people and influence their actions, some times for no better reason than to entertain myself.

Surprisingly, the accused stands perfectly silent, with a pained and troubled expression upon his aging features as he sips some more of his peppermint beverage, and it is actually the green man himself that responds to my venomous observation, bearing an unreadable face.

"The Dumbledore I knew was definitely a manipulative mastermind. But he was also a man who turned down greatness in favour of teaching, and a man who was honed by years of loneliness and regret. He never had anything but the best interests of the Hogwarts students in mind, and he did what he thought was necessary to protect those he loved. If it was my power that brought Voldemort down in that final duel, it was certainly Albus' brilliant mind that devised all the steps necessary towards that very defeat. If, truly, it is not over yet, and there is still one more thing I have to do, I cannot begrudge him that," he states coldly, and yet, even though his lineaments are tense, his large hand is still on my lower thigh, and so he cannot be as angry at my words as he would like to be.

_Too swift and passionate a denial, my dear, and I did not miss that haunted look in your eyes, when you spoke before, and when I spoke of manipulation._

A heavily uncomfortable silence settles between us four for a while, lingering above our heads like the oppressive smog that covers the country's filthiest industrial neighbourghoods, only to be ripped through by the abrupt chuckling of a retired Dark Lord.

* * *

"It all comes back to ze greater good, after all, does it not? In ze end, my sveet, you became more like me zhan you vould have liked to. How amusing," he mouths towards the Transfiguration professor, his dark, stormy eyes hazy with some disturbing sense of satisfaction, and then he chuckles once again, milky dentition gleaming between his smiling lips.

"He never became anything like you, _Gellert,_" Potter mouths venomously, and he rises from his chair with a brusque, hostile movement, his intoxicating magical aura flaring around him enraged and causing the table to quiver and the floor to shudder, as well as sending a small frisson down my own spine. "I, too, understand that sometimes sacrifices are necessary, I am no longer an idealistic child. But no greater good, no benevolent utilitarianism can excuse the things you've done. I know you know how wrong you were, how monstrous and pathetic and simply wrong, and even though you did it to get his attention, to draw him to you one way or another, I _know_ it all haunts you, so don't you dare judge Albus' decisions," he finishes, and now it is winter inside the cottage as well, frost seeping into eyes and minds.

_I almost want them to duel right here, right now, only so I can watch, like some decadent voyeur; so I can admire his grace in battle, his savage loyalty to the ones he cares for, the frightening beauty of his fury, the raw power of his skilled spellcraft and that deathly glint in his Avada-coloured eyes._

_Morgause, his lethality is such an afrodisiac, and I am also such a horrible person, such a deeply broken screw-up for being so incorrigibly attracted to death and power and decay._

"Such incredible pover is so vasted on a tool like you, Potter," the blond wizard snarls in response, his previously amused expression now contorted into a mask of hateful contempt, an expression dripping odium and scorn so acute, that even I am suddenly on guard, my fingers instinctively reaching for my wand. "Right... 'Rong... Good... Bad... Stupid little concept petty humans use to try und understand a vorld zhey cannot ozervise make sense of. Look at you! Armselig*! So desperately clinging onto your Manichaean concepts, your pathetic sense of duality, even as your heart is already in love viz darkness! It is laughable, ya?"

At this point, I have to put an enormous amount of effort into not interfering, because, even though I generally agree with the German wizard as far as the world not being black and white goes, it offends me on a shockingly profound level to watch Potter being insulted that way; he, who spent all his life fighting _(who saved me from myself, who showed me affection, who means so much to me),_ being spoken to as if he is little more than a working-dog.

_And also, when that irksome, haughty old jerk claims Potter is in love with darkness, could he possibly be implying... Could he truly believe Potter's feelings for me have grown as..._

_Could they really have..?_

Scribble-more, too, looks much like a cauldron about to burst, his bony wrists clenched and his brow low and crinkled, but I am not even certain in whose favour he would chose to intervene, seeing as he is very fond of both contestants.

"Why are you even here if you feel that way?" Potter spits out despitefully, and my eyes are now on his calloused fingers, watching closely as they tremble, as his muscles clench and unclench, as his nerves tighten and as magic vibrates around his hands dangerously, trying to determine whether he is actually going to strike, feeling myself both nervous, ill at ease, and morbidly fascinated.

_That certainly escalated very quickly, _I note worriedly.

"I am here because even zose you see as evil are capable of fondness, idiotic boy. However, I am not going to pretend I am suddenly, "whooosh", a good und wholesome vizard. I am ze same as I have ever been, only now I know vhat makes me happier. I am here because I am selfish, and I am villing to make ze necessary sacrifices to get vhat I vhant. Vhat makes me happy. If my motives are not good enough for you and your righteousness, feel free to drive me avay, Bursche**!"

The war-weathered time-traveller shoots a smouldering sideways glace towards the alternate version of his mentor, urging him to interfere, to do something before _he _has to, but the barmy goat of a wizard remains painfully silent and visibly torn, despite his lover's rather shocking admissions.

_Not a good and wholesome wizard._

_Same as I have ever been._

_Selfish._

_Necessary sacrifices._

_Motives._

_Why are you here?_

_Motives...?_

_Oh, Morgana! Why didn't that occur to me before!_

I see red.

* * *

Springing up, I fleetly unholster my wand and, with a precise and nimble flick of the wrist, I fire a rain of powerful restrictive and binding cursed towards Grindelwald, an umbrageous bouquet of green, silver, crepuscular red and yellow swirling angrily and speedily towards his body. Unfortunately, he is spry and experienced, and he most easily deflects them with a strong wandless ward, scoffing openly at my attempt, while immediately retaliating with a Dark binding spell of his own.

Nonetheless, he does not accomplish much, since his spell fizzles out mid-way, and I discover myself standing not on a wooden floor, but on a field full of absurdly beautiful, exotic flowers, a paradise on earth within this old family cottage.

_Expecto Ager Curam, _I recognise, the protective conjuration that draws upon affection and the desire to guard, and that is, like the Patronus charm, directly correlated to one's emotional state.

_Potter._

_Harry. _

_So endlessly large, so earth-shatteringly strong, his spell. What does that mean about his desire to protect me, about his emotions...?_

And sure enough, it is he who was conjured the protective field, the time-traveller's incredible magic humming not only all over the building but even spreading far beyond, his spellcraft enveloping me in a cradle of light and life, and as I turn behind to meet his eyes gratefully, he utters a confused "Tom? Why did you...?".

_Of course, I have to remember that the logical leaps that take place within my queer brain are not evident to the general public, meaning that my attacking that bastard must have seemed quite sudden and maybe a bit of an unjustified overreaction._

"Why? I'll tell you why!" I declare not without a slight touch of theatrics, turning my glare back to the German wizard, whose face is now oddly neutral, vacant even, and who does not seem willing to try his hand against both us together, instead choosing to wait patiently for pour-parleys.

"What did he offer you, _Gellert_?" I begin, now once again regaining my composure, chasing the overly showy and dramatic sentiments off my face and speech, and adopting a tone of pure, clinical rationality.

"I have no idea vhat..."

"I have many truly horrible flaws, but _stupidity_ is certainly not one of them. I would not be Voldemort's first choice of ally or vessel, even though I am his biological self, because I am still a student, bound by my inability to travel instantly in and out of the castle, bound by my young age, restricted by laws and by the necessity to keep my act up. He is going to want to possess me eventually, for emotional reasons if nothing else, but not yet, not before I have a greater freedom of movements. No, he'd much rather go to you before."

"He knows, as Harry knows, since they come from the same timeline, that you were the one who managed to find where Gregorovic and the Elder Wand were, and that you did so before the 1945 duel, when Dumbledore acquired it from you, and he would be eager to have you find it, so he can then grab it from your hands. He also knows you to be a Dark wizard, probably free of moral codes or a conscience, that you already have a network, a following. Furthermore, I know for a fact that Voldemort loves "alliances", so confident as he is in his ability to charm people, to seduce and use them. A perk of being him is knowing much about how he thinks, you know."

"He presented himself to you, came to you with an offer, I have no doubt of it whatsoever. But you said nothing to us, not even today, when I brought up my fears that he might have traveled to this time-space locus; you consciously chose to neither inform nor warn. Only one reason you would do that."

_Could I be wrong?_

_No, his immobile, marble-like face, his lack of response says I am right. I must be right._

"You're here for the Hallows, is that not right? You and him know where one is, but finding the other three would take a while, so here you are, having us do the hard work for you, and it has worked well, I believe, you must be feeling so clever. Harry has already acquired two of them, no? You are waiting for us to complete the set so that, at that very perfect moment just before all four fall into the hands of the same person, you may gloriously swoop in and remove them from us. Ingenious, I must admit, if only you were a tad more careful with what dreams you send around."

"But what I don't understand is, what could he possibly offer you that you could not get for yourself? What did he buy you with? Explain to me."

Only then, at the end of my ice-cold, calmly seething speech, do I perceive that my fists are shaking with supressed ire, that my teeth are pressing against each other so savagely that pain is shooting through my jaw, and that my magic has thrown back my chair as well as Potter's, and caused a brutal crack along the mahogany table.

For a surreally long moment, his face is completely blank, empty, almost soulless, only a few wavy golden locks moving, flying behind by the irregular spikes of my wizarding temper. Then, he very, very, excruciatingly slowly twists his rosy mouth into a perverted travesty of a smile, a shape so deeply revolting that my entire body tenses once more at the mere sight.

"Smart child, ya?" he utters, detached, jeering syllables mocking me with their sickly sweet tone, and forming a clear, unregretting admission of guilt; and even though they signify that I was evidently right, I do not feel the slightest bit pleased. On my left, the professor is paler than a dying man, his entire being frozen, unable to react, and behind his usually twinkling blue eyes, something is shredded into pieces and burned and demolished and savaged and broken.

"Smart little vhelp," the chesty Dark Lord, who seems to not be very much retired after all, repeats, before he turns his disconcerting gaze towards the green man, who is standing close behind me, and evidently searching for his eyes (_why him, why would he choose to look at him before throwing us his punchline?)_, all while grinning widely, almost blissfully.

Then, when his bottomless azure eyes meet Potter's, and for a moment in time so short that it might have only been my imagination, something that I cannot quite manage to describe or name changes in his expression, and he mouths "Vhy am I here, huh? Some things... zey just must be done. I hope you vill understand," in a voice that is the tiniest bit different from the one he'd used before; more serious, more raw.

"Vell, it vas nice playing viz you all. I vill see you around," is the last thing that comes out of his well-shaped lips before he vanishes into thin air, Apparating out of harm's way, presumably not willing to risk us getting over the shock of the moment and try to, perhaps, apprehend or neutralise him.

* * *

For a while, no one forms any words, and a deafening silence reigns supreme within the cluttered, shabby cottage, broken only by the sound of Dumbledore (a small part of me refuses to mock him and his name right now, and I idly wonder if this strange new feeling might be compassion) makes as he collapses onto his chair once more, his skin still a sickly, unnatural white.

Potter's expression, however, is very far from what I would have expected it to be, since, on his delightfully square-jawed face I think I spot...

_Thoughtfulness._

_Then understanding._

_Then relief._

_And then... amusement?_

"Potter..?" I inquire, my voice coming out surprisingly small and tentative; quiet, as if anything louder might break the grieving awkwardness of the moment.

Consequently, and to my utter lack of comprehension, the ever mysterious green man erupts into a a fit of rich, roaring laughter, and he strides towards Dumbledore, lifting him from his chair and state of complete devastation affectionately.

"Cheer up, you old fool, and fret not. He's still playing for our team. I saw a man, the bravest man I have ever met in fact, do something against his will because he _had_ to, once, and I never forgot what the shadow of self-disgust that fleetingly took over his face looked like. Gellert was trying to tell us, but you were too distraught, and Tom was too angry, so he had to turn to me. Some things must be done, he said. I hope you understand, he added, and he was not being sarcastic. He was clearly explaining, apologizing."

"But why the double bluff when he could very simply tell us about..." I begin, but then I have to bite my tongue and mercilessly lambast myself, horrified at my own occasional idiocy, which I ardently hope does not become a habit.

_Lord Voldemort, Master Legillimens._

_How obvious._

_How deviously clever; chapeau, Lord Grindelwald._

_The man was carefully constructing a fraudulent but actual memory, that would ensure Voldemort's trust, so that at this perfect moment where all the Hallows are assembled and Voldemort will be about to make his grand move, it will be he who will have to deal with an unexpected and very nasty surprise._

_Or so I hope, for it seems that between four (or actually five as it apparently stands now, and if one counts me and Voldemort as separate individuals, which they should,) wizarding prodigies, things are never the way they seem, never simple, but also, thank Merlin, never dull._

* * *

*Armselig = Pathetic

** Bursche =Laddie, kiddo


	46. Chapter 46

Disclaimer: If I owned the fictional young man going by the name of Tom Riddle, I would keep him shackled to my desk and force him to do all of my Law School homework. Thus I would slowly but surely take over the world (of jurisprudence).

A/N: I am not dead. I meant it when I said this story would not be discontinued. I promised to finish it. I -will- finish. Might take a while, but I am a woman of my word. (usually-sometimes-on-occasion when I'm not distracted by ...oh shiny)

As the 0.3% of my readers who actually read these author's notes know, my life is not exactly as easy as it was back when I started this fic. Seriously, it escalated quickly. But that does not mean I will abandon it.

A **heartfelt thank you** to all those who have bothered writing me a note or mail or whatnot, it honestly means a lot to me that strangers would care enough to do that. **Keep reviewing**, I read every single one, and even when I already have lots of 'em, every new one means a lot.

Also, **for all those who are at this point confused with the plot **(there were a few desperate reviews trying to outline the plot so far and then staring at me with teary eyes, like, "did I get it right? Yes, no? I am not sure I understand!", I will have a small overview/simplification at the end of the chapter as an additional A/N.

And now, on with the story, for a slightly less plot-driven chapter, but one that sets the stage of a massive outbreak of plot in the next installment.

* * *

Chapter 46

Dumbledore's PoV

I've been often told that I tend to be a rather cheerful man, and ever the optimist. I suppose it is true. After all, it's mostly those who have become intimately acquainted with sadness from early on that understand the value of cheer. Still, as much as the time-traveler's words make sense to me, a part of me dares not believe them.

_Could it really be as Harry says? Is Gellert still on our side?_

_On my side?_

_Is he simply behaving in the only way in which he could possibly fool and convince a Legillimens as powerful as that Voldemort? Is he carefully crafting genuine and persuasive memories to gain Voldemort's trust with?_

_Or was I, once again, a fool to so easily believe he would change for my sake? And naive to think he'd pick my company over his ambitions?_

_That his horrible choices had not come to represent him?_

Hope is a double-edged sword, and it can cut its wielder as surely as it can cut their enemy. Besides, when I replay my reunion with Gellert in my head, it definitely feels too _easy_, too surreal to have been sincere; like one of these frivolous five-sickles-a-piece wizarding romances written by someone named Fiora Bellaflora or Verissina Emerald, where enemies of old fall dramatically into each other's arms, and three months later they have triplets, a white fence and a pet Hippogryph.

I never really liked those, though I might still have liked them a slight bit more than I would care to publicly admit.

So there I sit, still and in silent shock, whirlwinds of conflicting thoughts inside my mind and a half-eaten biscuit in my hand, when the young man grabs my shoulder and shakes me lightly. He is muttering something about a "a goddamn Snape maneuver".

"Hey. He's with us in this. I am sure of it, Albus. He didn't betray you in my timeline, not even after you had died, not even despite the fact you two never bridged your differences. It makes no sense that he would betray you now. Voldemort has nothing to offer him that he would be unable to obtain by himself," he says and stares at me with bright green eyes, full of astounding conviction.

He does have a point. And so, even though I am not entirely convinced yet, I feel myself giving in to my tendency to see the best in people. I finish my cookie thoughtfully (the soft raspberry jam topping is absolutely delicious), take a deep breath, and press both my palms against the table with purpose.

"We'll need a plan," I state. Across the table, the pale Slytherin seems as delighted as if he were a Weasley and I'd just announced the opening of the new Quidditch season.

* * *

The pensive silence of craftiness reigns over the living room for a few moments (_and I try very hard to not think too much about Gellert, and betrayal, and whether or not, and if, and why, and how likely it is, how much percent, that he really did, and why wouldn't he after all, and..._), with Harry scratching his badly shaven chin, and the younger boy staring back and forth between Harry and his own hands, torn between unhealthy excitement and much healthier concern.

"Well," Tom finally speaks up, in a slow, nonchalant and deliberate manner, and not without some amount of self-satisfaction, "they might have their hands on one of the Elder Wands, but we have two Hallows already the way I understand it, and there's a significant number of ways in which we are at an advantage. For one, I'm in a better position to understand this Voldemort than he is to try and comprehend me. He has apparently changed in a few decades much less than I have in a few months, and, if his clumsy attempt to tempt me with these dreams is any clue, he is not yet fully aware of how much I've strayed off his initial path."

Harry does not seem entirely swayed by his signature-twin's superficial show of confidence, and though he does smile fondly at Riddle's proclamation of how much he has changed, his gaze remains much more somber. Sometimes, and as unchild-like as the young Tom tends to be, the gap between their ages and amount of war experience really does show.

"I think he does realise that you have stepped far out of your original path, Tom. Maybe he feels that since you were so swiftly influenced by my intruding this timeline, you must certainly be quite malleable. That he can put you back on that path as surely as I've been trying to take you off it."

The boy's cool blue eyes flash with a strong dose of anger.

"I'm not malleable, Potter," he said, and in spite of the calm and polite tone of his voice, he did not quite manage to keep his retort from sounding a bit like a hiss. It is quite adorable, how he reverts to using surnames when he is displeased, I note, and I feel my lips twitch upwards, the hurt and confusion from Gellert's potential treachery not quite as obliterating as a few minutes ago.

"I made choices. Conscious choices," the Slytherin heir adds, enunciating each word with intensity, and their eyes meet and lock. I pour myself another cup of tea, add three sugar cubes, and sip quietly, fascinated by their interaction.

I cannot help but notice that, these days, every single time they speak with one another, every single thing they say is overflowing with either fierce sentiment or subtle implications, sprinkled with grandiose vehemence and at least half a denied love confession. It must be really tiring to speak in a manner so... furiously _involved_.

_Reminds me of myself and Gellert, back in the days, how passionate we were about everything, how everything just seemed to matter more._

_And now..._

_How much did that small nightstand really matter to him?_

"That I do not doubt, my boy," I eventually decide to interfere. "I do also believe that we have an advantage. After all, we have one of the greatest powers in this world in our hands, a power that Voldemort does not have, and probably does not even understand."

Harry Potter looks distressed for a moment, and he grimaces sourly, glancing at me sideways. "Oh please Albus, don't say the damn power of love, for Merlin's sake!"

"What? Would I actually say something like that? Did I really get so soppy in old age? Sweet taffy treats, dear boy. I meant the magical signature-blending residue."

He offers me a wide smile of gratitude and relief.

Behind him, the disturbingly attractive teenager smirks a little, and, waving his hand around in a nerveless but frightfully and inexplicably graceful manner _(Gellert, too, did that sometimes, so it must be a Dark Lord thing),_ he inquires "Well, should we not start planning our own moves, then?"

* * *

Tom's PoV

A few days after the Grindelwald incident, and my daily schedule has never been busier, for I am constantly engaged with the intricate politics of the wizarding world, the delicate dynamics of the Slytherin house, the mind-numbingly easy but compulsory Hogwarts courses, the training sessions with Potter and the daily meetings with him and Paddle-boar all battling for my precious time and attention.

Naturally, as tends to be the norm when the assistant professor battles against, well, anything, he does seem to arise victor more often than not, and I grudgingly realise that most of my time and attention does ultimately lay itself down at his feet, whether I want it to or not. Nonetheless, I cannot help but note the uncomfortable silences between us these days, as I have decided not to broach the subject of the earth-shakingly powerful _Expecto Ager Curam _that guarded me against Grindelwald, and he, in turn, has decided not to admit how evident a declaration of love it constituted.

Despite the slightly discomforting tension of a few undisclosed admissions hovering between us like invisible lapidopterons, however, I also find myself enjoying our simple training sessions a frightening lot, awaiting them eagerly and longing for the warm, wordless comfort of his presence and his affection.

_Next thing we know I shall be enthusiastically fetching him his newspaper and slippers, wagging my tail, and then sitting by his toes to gnaw a bone._

_Get a grip, Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_If the threat of your foul corrupted and sadistic future-self strutting about your own time-space coordinates and seeking to destroy the things you've come to hesitantly albeit undeniably care about, as well as obtaining your very soul, is not enough to override this sensation of _

_comfort and growing familiarity and replace it with a sense of impending doom and peril instead, then your infatuation is reaching depths considered pathetic even by Hufflepuff standards._

_And Hufflepuffs don't even _have_ standards._

It is not exactly that I am unafraid of the menace of Voldemort, unaffected by the gruesome yet seductive nightly visions he sends my way, and unaware of the true profundity of the danger he poses. The truth is that I am, in fact, more than keenly aware of all of the aforementioned, and that there is a large, if temporarily supressed, part of me that is unfeignedly terrified of this twisted mirror vision of myself, and what his presence here could cost me.

It is simply that I...

"Hey. Been waiting?"

* * *

I turn my head slowly towards the source of the casual greeting, although the sound of his characteristically sure-footed steps and the rich, textured timbre of his voice have been more than sufficient to identify him, long before my eyes finally fall upon his stalwart form. He is leaning against the doorway of the empty classroom, raven-black hair framing his handsome face in intractable strands and jaw darkening with the slightest bit of stubble, his lips curving into a faint but cordial smile and the first button of the shirt beneath his open robes undone, revealing the slightest pale patch of skin, right at the base of his neck. A more distracting sight I could not imagine.

"A mere few seconds, really. How is our dear aging madman doing with the tracking of the second Elder Wand?" I ask in a mildly dégagé tone, hopping off the desk upon which I had been sitting quite languidly before, and taking a few steps towards the time-traveler, all while allowing my own carmine mouth to curve into a small, welcoming smirk.

"That woman from Algeria? False lead," he states and sighs, evidently concerned with our lack of progress, and the killing curse-coloured eyes under his bold brows wander pensively around the room for a few moments, before they finally settle upon my approaching figure, appreciating it politely but not entirely subtly.

He does not kiss me.

I suppose our ...relationship (not entirely the right word, I feel, but then again, I doubt the English language has one that would more appropriately describe whatever it is we have formed with one another) has not yet reached the point where we can simply greet one another with a hungry meeting of the lips, freely and naturally, not only because of our age difference, but, I assume, because of the general difficulty of our circumstances; and thus, instead of that, he simply places a hand to rest against my waist and melts his gaze into mine, smiling heatedly, an act I have learned to interpret as an _implied _kiss, one which will, unfortunately, have to suffice for the time being.

"Not good, that. If Voldemort beats us at the race to the second Elder Wand, then the Hallows shall be split fairly between our two... sides, and our advantage shall be substantially lessened, with only this signature bond of ours giving us any semblance of an upper hand."

"Yes. Which is exactly why we need to hone its usage as best as we can, Tom. It might end up being our only reliable weapon. And please, don't think to blame Albus. He is a brilliant man, and he is working hard on this. It's surprisingly difficult to find something when you have not the slightest idea where in the entire damn universe it could be," he observes dryly, and he takes a few idle steps around the vacant classroom before eventually dropping his aesthetically pleasant behind onto a half-broken chair.

I wait patiently -a trait I would have never guessed I would one day be able to exhibit even to the slightest degree- for him to finish his trail of unsaid thoughts, and subsequently, when he is up upon his feet again and his mind is no longer floating off to distant horizons, we train.

We get ourselves warmed up with a few simple spell drills, curses and blocks, hexes and shields, and soon we end up sparring casually with one another, using a vast variety of incantations, ranging from the occasional banal _Expelliarmus _to a few obscure and convoluted dark jinxes that, surprisingly, Potter does not seem to mind, since he firmly believes that magic is only ever as evil as its wielder.

_And his opinions are actually rubbing off on me, I note, half-surprised._

Later, we train our ability to tap into each other's magical reserves, an action with which we have both, at this point, cultivated an incredible ease and familiarity, effortlessly using each other's magic as if it were our very own. And it is something which, to be perfectly sincere, feels unbelievably, shockingly intimate, sometimes more so than even the most passionate of kisses we have shared; an easy, unstrained sense of fundamental _merging_, a sensation that I doubt I could manage to convey even if I were to use the most impressively florid words in my prodigious vocabulary.

We then indulge in a few challenging exercises of spell combination, and though we have never again tried to do something as ambiguous as combining our _Patronus _forms ever since that rather discomforting Catoblepas we had once produced, I am definitely pleased to note that melting our respective shields into a single, broader one, or weaving together even our most potent offensive spellwork now comes as easily and unworthy of particular concentration as breathing. And I obviously mean to one who has no particular issues with their respiratory system, and is not currently suffering some manner of an anxiety attack, drowning or otherwise dying.

Follows a thorough workout of our subtle emotional link, the part of our residual signature-blending that allows us to sense something of the other's emotional state, if only the strongest and most prevalent of emotions, and if only in a fairly feeble and elusive way, and then we finally reach the peak of our training sessions, the intense, passionate sparring that is worthy of being called a magical duel.

* * *

He still defeats me, that thrice-cursed magnificent, war-weathered Gryffindor bastard. Every time.

Nevertheless, he does not do so with quite as much ease as he used to; these days I can make him sweat, and pant, and use feints and dives and tricks and silent traps, and generally the whole extent of his incredible magical arsenal as well as the full power of his natural resourcefulness, and Morgana, it does make me feel shamefully good to bring a flush to that rugged, charismatic face.

When I, inevitably, end up hit by the blast produced by the dispersion of my own _Bombarda_ against his wandless wards (_when in Salazar's beard did he even cast those, and how in the seven floors of Rowena's tower did I miss them?)_, he leaps swiftly to my side and offers me a hand, which I eventually take in spite of my ever wounded pride, for pouting and stewing in jealous resentment does not befit a young man of my grace and distinction.

"Damn, Tom! That was bloody brilliant! Coating that _Lacarnum Inflamarae _with a Shield Penetration Charm back there? You very nearly had me!" he exclaims with bright enthusiasm, and I inwardly remark that he no longer seems reluctant in the face of my growing power, that seems close to surpassing his own, or worried that his teachings might result in his own downfall; a vote of confidence that I am more than pleased to be receiving, even though I am still not entirely sure I deserve it, or ever will.

"Very nearly had you, huh," I coo temptingly and stand against him, still not having let go of his helpful hand, and now bringing my second one against the collar of his robes. "Oh, but I do have you, Harry. I already have you in more ways than you care to admit."

The wave of searing hot satisfaction I experience in watching his immediate and subconscious response of desire -pupils dilating, lips parting, breath deepening- is somewhat overwhelming, and I suppose I should feel some degree of guilt for venting the sting of defeat on him like that, by tugging selfishly at the strings of his want of me, but I don't, for it would require more of a conscience than I have yet managed to develop.

"Tom..." he exhales, one quarter a plea and three quarters a threat, his exquisite eyes flashing with simultaneous anger and desperation, and his jaw clenching with no small degree of frustration.

"Riddle! It is neither the place nor time nor is it..." he snarls this time, as my long fingers trail up the fabric of the shirt to reach for the delectably exposed skin at the base of his throat, and now his refulgent glare is sincerely furious, his lower jaw locking tightly into a position of barely restrained exasperation.

"Alright, I know, I know..."

I remove myself with deliberate slowness from him, a self-satisfied smirk still plastered all over my apparently entrancing face, and I sit myself upon a desk, crossing long legs as I fix an errant lock of hair that had been previously resting against my lashes.

"You'll be the death of me," he admits in a fairly quiet voice, but his mood seems lighter again, and the smile on his lips, as bittersweet as it is, is also warm, and comfortable. I suppose he has truly made his peace with this attraction of ours, finally.

"Can't believe you thought yourself heterosexual before this particular involvement, you know. Your libido, or at least the physical aspect of it, certainly does not seem to be the slightest bit hindered by my gender," I joke gently, and he throws one of these half-dark, half-soft and entirely unreadable looks my way, taking a shaky step back to rest his back against the cool, stone wall, and then chuckling, more to himself, I'd say, than to me.

"Yeah. Tell _me_ about it," he responds, not without humour and yet more seriously than I had expected. "I should have noticed, really. Retrospectively, it was pretty darn obvious."

"I mean, for one, we once watched some Veelas dance, and while Ron was practically losing his head, I was barely even phased. And my first crush... A strong, lean, bossy Asian Quidditch player. Flat as a board, too. As close to being attracted to male qualities without buying a Freddy Mercury poster as one gets."

He laughs out loud to himself at that last remark, gaze wandering far away, in entertaining remembrance, while I, rather mystified, wonder what in Mordred's armour a Freddy Mercury is.

"And my ex-wife... Wearing skirts, blushing, writing poems, never even really noticed her. As soon as she puts pants on, starts playing sport and acting tough and whatnot, suddenly she was strangely appealing. Though I suppose there are many straight men who really do prefer a girl that's not a damn blushing maiden, so I could have still been straight at that point. The Draco thing, however? That should have really clued me in."

He pauses thoughtfully after that, callused fingers scratching against his chin and lips still twitching with self-effacing amusement, and my curiosity is piqued too strongly for me to resist asking, despite my tone of feigned disinterest. "Draco thing?"

"A Malfoy, in my year. You could say we were ...rivals. I spent almost an entire year obsessing over him, at some point, convinced that he had joined Voldemort's Death Eaters and stalking him to figure out what he was planning. It turned out I was right, about the Death Eater thing, and that he really _was_ scheming, trying to help those arses find a way into the castle. But looking back at it now, I don't think that was the _only _reason I was obsessing."

"Later, in one of the battles that occurred on Hogwarts grounds, I felt curiously compulsed to save his sorry hide, and he consequently hopped camps, fighting loyally with us until Voldemort's eventual defeat. I was married at that point, though, and, well, it was a tough war, many casualties, and then the civil war broke out, and no one had the luxury to sit down and ask themselves why the heck they seem so concerned with some snooty little Slytherin prick."

Once more, his captivating eyes wander into the imagined distance, contemplating people that have not existed yet and now never will, and seeing straight through the age-old walls of the School or Witchcraft and Wizardry, into memories of a future forever lost to him.

I surprise myself at feeling a sudden, inexplicable stab of envy towards whoever it is that can make the green man so melancholic, but shove the sensation away in favour of a slightly snide remark.

"So, it would seem you have a type. Conniving Slytherings."

At that, he turns his head to me and unleashes a brief but loud roar of laughter, one that reveals his pearly teeth and a pair of faint dimples next to his arcing lips, making him look older as well as younger in perfect synchronicity, a bizarre effect I can't quite comprehend.

"I suppose you're right."

"Well, if so, then you are certainly fortunate. One could probably argue that I am the pinnacle of both of these traits. Conniving enough to stage a miniature political coup from the safety of my classroom, and Slytherin enough to be an _actual_ Slytherin, by blood," I remark, my voice softly accented by impudent playfulness, as the rosy light of the now setting sun creeps into the room, framing both our forms in halos of apricot.

"I even dare speculate that, given these facts, I might be the man of your dreams, no?" I continue, but as soon as the supposed jibe leaves my lips and reaches my ears, I, to my abundant horror, notice that my words have come out in form of a reluctant question instead, one substantially more grave than I had consciously intended.

"_Do you love me?" _is, in essence, what I have just accidentally asked, and I stare at him half-frozen, in awkward recognition of my own reluctant inquiry, enraged at the pitiful antics of my subconscious mind.

He stares back, carefully and exhaustively examining my face, and if, perchance, he had not understood the real if unintended nature of my words at first, then certainly my expression of alarmed realisation cannot but have conveyed the inadvertent message.

Indeed, the light-heartedness on his features is instantly replaced with sobriety.

"At this point, you should not even have to ask," he replies simply, without embellishment, lifting his eyes to mine.

And there is an astounding plainness and a heart-breaking honesty in his somewhat hoarse voice that reaches out to me like a punch to the gut, forcing me to realise just how desperately I had wanted to hear him admit this ever since that accursed _Ager Curam_, how furiously I had needed this affirmation, and how, despite my own unwillingness to offer a similar declaration, and my own uncertain heart, I have been selfish enough to yearn for as much proof of his devotion as I could possibly get my hands on.

_Will I ever be able to sincerely return such feelings?_

_To say such words with honesty?_

_To..._

_Curses._

_I don't know. _

_I just don't know._

Unable to offer an adequate answer, I kiss him.

* * *

Suddenly, while my hands lock behind his neck and his around my waist, that overactive part of my daedal mind that is ever plotting, deducing, compartmentalising, conjecturing and hypothesizing, while idly pondering upon my aforesaid status as a heir of Salazar, stumbles upon the outline of a half-formed thought that feels somehow monumental.

_Heir of Slytherin._

_Bloodlines._

_Potter and I, both descendents of the Peverell family._

_Residual bonding._

_Hereditary signature-blending._

"A relative," I interrupt the -admittedly tremendously arousing- kiss and abruptly proclaim, feeling vivaciously triumphant. "Look, we know that our signature blending is a residual effect of an older spell, passed on genetically, and resurfacing every couple of centuries, yes? So it would make sense that there would have been an pair of signature twins in the past, and that we would each be a descendant of one of them, and thus heirs to their magical legacy. And yet, Potter, we are actually both related to the _same_ historical family known to have been carrying a signature-bond residue gene: the Peverells. That makes very little sense, unless..."

"Wait," he mutters, glaring at me, and I can almost feel the gentle humming of the gears inside his head turning. "Unless _both _of these supposed ancient bloodlines, the genes of the original twin, ended up blending within the Peverell family? And that would be how we could have both ended up inheriting a _different _side of the bond from the _same _family? That's what you are saying?"

I nod. "Well, one of us could have inherited it from elsewhere, I suppose, but you have to admit that it _would _make a whole lot of sense..."

"Wait, Tom, damn you! Not all of us are freakishly intelligent! So... that would mean that whoever Antioch's signature twin was, the wielder of the other Elder Wand, it is more than likely that he was also the man's relative."

I nod again, my smirk spreading as his dark eyebrows furrow in thought, and I finish off the flow of his deductions.

"And from what we know of this residual twinning phenomenon, it requires two time-wise coexisting males, who would most likely be both magically gifted, and probably have a close relationship. Therefore, if we look more extensively into the Peverell family tree for another male wizard who lived during Antioch Peverell's time, and exhibited strong magical proficiency, there would be a very strong chance it will have been the aforesaid twin, and thus the wielder of the second Elder Wand, which would also mean that by following his trail, we should be able to get a reliable lead to..."

* * *

A few minutes later, we are in Fumble-spore's office, and all three of us are speaking simultaneously in heavily excitedly tones, scurrying about the room in frantic paces, unrolling genealogical scrolls, spreading out maps and breaking yellowed tomes open, pointing things to one another, and occasionally yelping in jubilant discovery or elated understanding.

And finally, _Myrmydon Peverell-Rafficini._

Who fits the profile as smoothly as I flatter Slughorn's ego, who was third cousin to the renowned Peverell brothers and apparently in very friendly terms with them (especially, some accounts in Laeticia Panini's '_A Detailed History of the Noble Houses of Italy' _would suggest, with Antioch, though just _how _close remains a secret lost in history, even though rumours of a dreadfully unhappy marriage between him and his lovely Italian wife could be said to offer, indeed, a subtle hint), who was a Transfiguations' master of considerable fame and a more than passable duelist, who often visited the Kingdom of England on business, and who, curiously, died the very same year as our dear, enigmatic Antioch.

* * *

A few hours later, we are in Rome.

"This ice-cream is brilliant," Drab-galore mumbles.

* * *

**Optional A/N for those who wish to freshen up their understanding of the main plot and are not just reading this because of the slash reasons:**

So, many of you lovely readers asked me all sorts of questions related to Harry's or Voldemort's presence in the 1940-1 timeline, mostly summed up in "Am I understanding this right?". For you, without further ado:

**What the hell has happened:**

Voldemort is defeated a couple of years after Harry's Seventh Year, but, as in the original canon, the last fragment of his soul does not quite die, due to his strange bond with Harry, and he ends up in the "train station", that is, a state of limbo.

This place between life and death is also inhabited by future!Albus, who ended up there due to simultaneously dying and becoming Master of Death, therefore existentially confusing the universe. A round of applause, please.

Future!Albus realises that, even though future!Voldie is unable to escape limbo by himself, whoever next hops between timelines or does something equally weird will also come to pass through this place of limbo, thus creating an opening for future!Voldie to pass through with him, following the traveler's tail.

For that reason, when Harry Potter ends up in limbo himself, future!Albus grabs the opportunity to send him back in time, and specifically a time when another Voldie will be alive (past!Tom), as to ensure that:

Wherever/whenever future!Voldie ends up by following the traveler, Harry Potter will be there to defeat him, since he will,in this case, _be _the traveler.

Harry will enter the new timeline a split second before future!Voldie, and thus his severed twin-bond will attach itself to the resident Voldie it will find there, therefore bonding him to past!Tom instead, and making future!Voldie killable.

(Also, Harry's actions can not cancel his own birth, because he is no longer causally tied to it. He did not travel back in time within a specific timeline, as if with a Time-Turner. He actually stopped existing (went into limbo), and then started existing again elsewhere/when. So his initial point of entry in this timeline is no longer his birth. The cause-effect link is severed.)

Thus, now future!Voldie enters 1940, and, since allying oneself or inhabiting a 14-year old emo kid in a boarding school is terribly restrictive for a Dark Lord, he approaches Grindelwald instead of past!Tom.

Furthermore, it is still intentionally unclear for you dear readers whether he has simply allied himself with Gellert or is physically possessing him/sharing his body, and whether or not Gellert has been tricking us all along, or is pulling off a Snape. Harry seems to believe he's still with the goodies, and not the badies, and Harry _has seen some shit_, but you are free to believe what you want.

Though I'd agree with Harry if I were you. He's Harry freakin' Potter.

Also, now future!Voldie knows what Gellert knows, being a Legillimens, (who himself knows what Harry has said out loud, as well as what past!Albus has told him), so he has obviously found out about the twin Elder Wands, and whatnot. However, the dear reader does yet know just how much future!Voldie knows about the signature-blending thing.

It's very simple, really.

*cough*


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: A deep thank you to all those who have wasted a few moments of their time to leave a review. **Reviews are more important than most people realise.** Since we fanfiction writers have no financial or otherwise profit from writing, interaction with readers is the only reward we get. Please, do keep that in mind. It's our biggest source of inspiration and motivation.

About **genealogy**: Someone pointed out that since both Harry and Tom are related to the Peverells, that must mean that Harry is related to Slytherin, as well. That's completely untrue, and a logical fallacy. My maternal cousin and I are both related to my mother, but my cousin in definitely not related to my father. Unless we're from some really shady mid-west American town. Rowling has made it beyond clear (in interviews, too) that Tom Riddle is truly the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and I wish to stick to canon concerning this particular issue.

About **chess**: A couple of people were slightly upset over my having made errors in writing out the chess game I had in mind, a few chapters back. Thank you for pointing them out to me; I have actually re-written that whole part, and checked multiple times to ensure the game is accurate. I also added the missing moves until checkmate, because even though chess games generally stop when both players realise how the game is going to end, some people demanded it, and my readers are my priority.

To all the people who hesitantly send me notes, asking to be my friend, don't be shy. Anyone who wants to contact me for any reason, including just because, is more than welcome to.

I really am open to and grateful for all kinds of communication, fun and feedback.

Warnings: Violence, slash, and *gasp* lots of useless trivia about Rome.

* * *

Chapter 47

Tom's PoV

The fact that, as an underage wizard, I have almost no opportunities to travel to other countries, has been and still is one of the most important reasons that I am terribly impatient as far as reaching my age of majority is concerned. It is one thing to devote oneself to academic studying, exploring long-lost secrets of magic through dusty tomes and weathered parchments, and it is truly quite another to be able to walk through the very majestic pyramids in which event-triggered curses were first invented, to explore the Grecian ruins where the most ancient Seers once unlocked the secrets of far-sight, or to wander the frozen landscapes where the Tibetan wizard-monks who first discovered the mechanics of the Animagus transformation have hidden their occult knowledge.

Rome, too, is one of those unique, fascinating places that vibrate with historical and magical significance, brimming with ancient ruins, extraordinary buildings, hidden sights and secrets, and thus, while I walk the picturesque stone pavement of its well-preserved, postcard-like city center, I feel a sense of quiet contentment occasionally decorated with pangs of exhilaration, and I take in the plethora of information surrounding me with deep satisfaction.

"Ah... This is the San Clemente church, is it not? I've read it was built above ruins from the third and fourth century BC. If we find the time, I would really not mind a visit," I state in my usual flat tone, which can accurately be described as fashionably disinterested, and I leisurely bring the admittedly magnificent gelato cone to my mouth.

"Well, we'll likely have very little spare time left, being still in the middle of the school term and all, my boy. And I was rather hoping for the mausoleum of Cecilia Metella, myself, I hear it's a fascinating place," Trouble-shore retorts, removing the traces of lemon gelato from his greying but still brightly auburn facial hair with a multicoloured handkerchief, and behind us Harry Potter sighs audibly, presumably thinking us incorrigible bookworms and knowledge aficionados.

"Mother of the famed Marcus Crassus, yes? They were rumoured to have been a wizarding family, if I recall some of my readings correctly," I say.

"Ah, yes, my boy. They most certainly were. For all that she did not go down in Muggle history as an important figure, despite the magnificent tomb erected in her memory, I have reason to believe Cecilia Metella was a witch out of the ordinary. I suspect her final resting place must still hold fascinating secrets," the slightly insane but also extremely intelligent Transfigurations' Master confides in me conspiratorially, and his sky-blue gaze is glittering in its usual secretive, perturbing manner that never fails to render me deeply uneasy. "In fact, it is always a sign of a smart witch, to have brushed thusly with Muggle politics, but to have carefully avoided the spotlight, or to attract too much attention."

"I see. That sounds quite intriguing," I consent, pondering upon the possible nature of the magical secrets Wobble-boar could be referring to and, naturally, feeling my interest piqued; someone who can skillfully meddle in politics and still keep a façade of innocence is clearly someone I'd be curious about.

"Am I the only one here who is less concerned with our historical heritage and the local delicacies, and more concerned with Myrmydon's resting place and the bloody Hallows? I know neither of you have truly experienced Voldemort, but for the love of Merlin's Staff, we are racing against time here," Harry Potter exclaims, interrupting us with obvious exasperation, his growing irritation causing the nerves placed against his jaw to flutter visibly. He is, of course, absolutely right, and I inwardly berate myself for losing focus for a moment, and for exhibiting upon my character the influence of the insufferable lord of lemon-drops, foolishness and non-sequiturs walking beside us.

About an hour and a lot of walking later, we are near the Cesano cemetery, and the time-traveler taps a peculiar-looking marble angel thrice with his wand, causing it to retract its wings and unveil the entrance to the wizarding wing of said cemetery. I would be tempted to call the site _beautiful_, but I feel that perhaps it's not a fitting word for an amalgam of eerie statues, old resting places, crumbling pagan symbols and aggressive growths of dark ivy.

Walking amongst half-wilted roses and tombs with fading lettering engraved upon them, I feel the slightest pang of apprehension, for even the air feels different in this place, cooler, crueler and far more still. Looking for Myrmydon's grave, we almost instinctively split, with Dangle-more taking the left and Potter, whom I opt to follow, the right, and for a while we examine the area, in perfect silence and with meticulous care, brushing layers of dust off cracked tombstones and parting vines to reveal pompous names of old wizarding families and, on occasion, tacky portraits of the dear departed.

"Are we sure he was buried here?" Harry Potter eventually asks, after the first fifteen minutes of our quest prove less than fruitful.

"As sure as we could possibly be. I cross-referenced extensively, as I have explained before," I reply tonelessly, but nonetheless not quite managing to suppress a sting of annoyance at the suggestion that I could have erroneously interpreted or processed information, even though I am well aware that the time-traveler did not mean to personally offend me. At the corner of my field of vision, I see him roll his eyes at my irritability, but his rugged face holds a rather fond smile and he does not seem bothered by my occasional overreactions.

"Over here! I think this very well might be it," Stubble-Snore then declares cheerfully, interrupting our meaningful glares, and I swiftly turn my head to find the fiery-haired coot leaning over a grave in the far left corner of this elegantly macabre place, pulling weeds apart to uncover some aging headstone. Potter rushes to the Transfigurations' Master's side, relief and eagerness not so very subtly glowing on his face, and I follow, perhaps not as enthusiastically, but most certainly with great interest, until all three of us are standing above the discovery of a certain engraving spelling out:

_Myrmydon Peverell-Rafficini_

_1216 - 1291_

_Requiescat in Pace_

...and then letting our faces fall abruptly upon the viciously disquieting discovery that this particular grave has actually already been broken into, and that we are, evidently, much too late.

_Well, this bodes ill, _I think to myself coldly, and lift my gaze from the desecrated grave to meet Potter's own, only to find his naturally grass-coloured, lively, kind eyes now dark and thick with memory, too obviously haunted with ire, fear, and the merciless familiarity of upcoming war.

"Gellert was here," the copper-headed wizard finally shatters the ominous, uncomfortable soundlessness, his jaw visibly tense behind his rich facial hair and his expression one of unhidden disquiet and uncertainty. "I recognise his magical signature. He tried to be discreet, but..." He suddenly turns to the time-traveler, and the usually unnaturally piercing, bright sky stare seems stormy and thoughtful, his slightly disturbed but, admittedly and to my disgruntled admiration, brilliant mind obviously in overdrive. "You still believe, Harry, dear boy, that he is on our side?"

"Don't you? Well, I guess only time will tell," Harry Potter replies in a tone that sounds inappropriately casual, as well subtly albeit deeply weary, and after a few moments of initial stiffness, his body language now reacquires its natural fluidity, insouciance and devil-may-care sway, as if the desecrated grave and the new incertitude on Lord Grindelwald's loyalties are nothing but an expectable as well as minor setback. I am tempted to suspect he may know something I don't; and yet I suppose I should not assume, for I should not forget that this is a man who's been thrust into a torrent of war, backstabbing, espionage, unrest and violence from a very young age, and that, perhaps, he truly is right within his element in situations like these, and appears so oddly relaxed for no better reason than that.

"Hm. I suppose there is little else for us to do here. If we have two Hallows, and Voldemort has another two, he will inevitably confront us at some point, and the most we can do is attempt to make it happen under our conditions rather than his," I helpfully contribute, feeling the green man's odd and rather inexplicable serenity spread to me like an infectious viral disease, and suiting my natural nonchalance like a glove. "Also, I think the church of San Nicola di Bari is very close to here, right in the Municipio XX. Eleventh century, said to have secretly hosted a coven of pureblood witches at some point. Could be interesting," I then add, as lightly and conversationally as possible, experiencing a simultaneous eerie light-headedness and a stark, cold, rational clarity whispering into my mind _so this is how the board is set; and now we'll all play to the best of our abilities, and who shall, shall win._

* * *

Potter's PoV

The Chiesa di San Nicola di Bari doesn't look like much; certainly much simpler and less flashy than the one holding the same name in Southern Italy. Hermione and I had gone there, once, looking for some clues on the location of a middle Christian era artifact that may or may not have been used to temporarily suppress accidental magic in infants or something. I don't even remember why we wanted it.

Anyway, this church is a small, tired, light beige rectangle with small, shifty-looking windows, and frankly, I can't say I'm impressed with the view. So I am surprised to find that there is indeed a secret passage behind the weather-worn picture of that suspicious Madonna with her strangely calm bambino. Dumbledore and Riddle are both perfectly collected and dignified, treating the discovery with an outward appearance of mild, amused interest. For one who knows them as well as I do, though, it's obvious they're both rather agitated. I can't help but smile affectionately at how the two of them are, in a way, beginning to accidentally get along.

_How domestic. Huzzah._

"Tom, my dear boy, I think you should give this grimoire to me. I promise you once I translate the twelfth century Latin transfiguration terminology, which I know you are not exactly fluent with, I will give you a copy," Albus is suggesting some hours later, as we come out of some catacomb and into a nearby garden, his tone fatherly but a slight bit minacious. Riddle, insouciant and porcelain-faced, throws an unimpressed glare his way. Then he hugs said grimoire closer to his chest, a weird mixture of a petulant child and a blasé Dorian Gray.

"If I want to learn Latin transfiguration terminology, I shall do so, and will have to spend at most two evenings, sir. So I believe that, since this particular stop in our sight-seeing was my idea, I have the right to reap the benefits and turn down your kind assistance," the young Slytherin responds, a victorious smirk too small to be seen by anyone who wouldn't know to look for it twitching on his rosy lips. Smug little bastard.

"Well, when you find yourself lost in the subtle differences between the abeo, novo, mutatio and vicissitudo spell groups, you know where my office is," says Albus, politely but patronizingly, and behind his gentle, sweet smile glows indignation that he does not even bother trying to hide. No wonder I turned out a little strange, with him as a mentor and father-figure.

Of course, Tom Riddle interprets the statement as a challenge issued maliciously towards him, and he narrows his beautiful, clear eyes derisively, his entire face oozing a silent "as if".

And then, a young man, quite obviously a wizard, pops up from behind a bush, and start running towards us rather awkwardly.

Immediately, I find myself stepping in front of Riddle and Dumbledore protectively, swiftly casting a non-verbal and wandless shielding spell or two, my eyes measuring distances and counting exit points. Behind me, I also catch the sound of the young Slytherin unholstering his wand without a moment's tarrying, and the whistling of the many layers of Albus' grandiose robes as he, too, assumes a battle-ready position. The young man, however, his face flushed and his oily brown hair disheveled, does not seem the slightest bit threatening, and if it were not for the paranoia my long years in the battlefield have groomed, I would likely be inclined to drop my martial pose.

"I'm a friend, please! I have a message. Someone told me you'd be here. He told me he has what you came looking for," the man declares in rather horribly pronounced English, freezing a few feet before us and resting his hands on his knees to seemingly catch his breath. He indeed does seem harmless enough, panting, somewhat chubby, and red-faced, but then again, so did Quirrel, and Pettigrew, and a slew of other treacherous worms; pathetic does not necessarily cross off dangerous.

"Who sends you?" Dumbledore speaks, his cheerful, quirky persona completely evaporated, and leaving behind an intimidating, confident wizard whose firm voice plainly suggests his tolerance for nonsense is quite low.

"The Dreamer sends me. He's part of the Society of Those who See. He saw your coming here. He said you need not worry. That the others who came, they, too found the nothingness you found. That he made sure to secure the item beforehand. He's seen it. He said he supports the snake, and that he has actually offered his allegiance before."

_The Dreamer? Bloody hell! Complications upon flippin' complications! What the hell is that now?_

_Likely a ploy by Voldemort._

"The Dreamer...? Supports me? Ah... Long blond hair, vacant cerulean eyes, soft, floating voice?" Tom Riddle asks, tone sharp and eyes sharper still, and he steps forward, fingers still tightly clasped around his wand, but his graceful face holding interest now, rather than aggressive wariness. I have no idea what he is talking about, but Albus seems to, because his lips curve upwards into a strongly satisfied smile and his gaze twinkles in that typical, unsettling way that implies the pieces are falling together inside his cunning head.

"Yes. He did say you have been acquainted. Well, anyway, he told me you should leave this place and meet him back at..."

"_Avada Kedavra_"

* * *

The plump man falls over, immediately dead, and after the flat thud of his lifeless body, many things happen at once.

A group of a dozen of battle-wizards appears from behind a couple of trees. They seem to have specific orders, and are dressed in dark blue, bearing Italian fascist symbols, while one of them is still holding his wand in the Killing Curse position. Behind me, Tom Riddle hisses a _Protego Maximalis_, surprising me considerably by choosing to start off with a defensive incantation. It's generally not his style. Dumbledore, who immediately notices that both Tom and I have area-of-effect shields in place, taking account my still-standing earlier spell, whips out of a few _Expelliarmus_' that successfully send a couple of our attackers flying back. For a fraction of a second I stand there, a little unsure, my hand floating before my body.

Having spent so many long, ugly years in the battlefields, I eventually had to accept that wars kill people, and lose my scruples over the use of lethal force; it was us or them. However, the situation is entirely different now, a different time, a different place, a different war, and Merlin knows it would not be wise to wet my hands with blood in front of Tom fricking Riddle, to give him a taste for murder or imply that it can, under certain circumstances, be an acceptable course of action.

_Hypocrite._

_I'm such a bloody hypocrite._

And so I bite back my _Confrigo_s and my entrail-expelling curses, and instead distribute a batch of _Incarcerous_, a couple of which successfully find their targets and throw some of our assailers to the floor, bound with thick rope and screaming curses at me.

Our shielding holds for a while, but soon, as is always inevitable when a stable, strong flow of magic crashes against a defensive screen, a spell or two break through. Dumbledore has to individually deflect some kind of Slashing Hex, while I leap in to partially renew our defenses with a _Salvio Hexia_. I peek a little to my left as I do so, and, to my relief, find Tom in perfect control of the situation, lazily and fluidly avoiding anything that might have momentarily managed to bypass our fading shielding charms, and riposting gracefully with non-lethal incantations, mostly _Impendimenta_s.

Albus and I, too, throw around a few Stunners and leglocking curses, and, despite our ridiculous numerical disadvantage, all seems to be going perfectly well, with none of us actually having to break as much as a sweat, until another six or seven wizards rush out into the clearing, dousing us with a new torrent of hexes and aggressive spellwork.

_Well, shit._

A _Bombarda_ flies right past Dumbledore's left ear, and a tree behind us explodes quite majestically.

It is then that I feel a familiar tug at my magic, a knowing pull, and I turn my gaze towards the young Slytherin to find his own furious, clear blue eyes bearing into me demandingly, requesting access. _Why not_, I think to myself, well aware of the unusually large pool of magical power than I am fortunate enough to own, that such a brief battle could not possibly have any chance of depleting. And so I let him, and I feel the magic surge through the strange residual bond, that odd thread between us, and he practically glows with delight at the sensation, and looks divinely powerful.

"_Protego Totalum Amplus Repercussio_" he declares in a loud, thunderous, sinister tone. The words echo potently through the dark gardens as he raises his hands to weave a stunning, complex and surprisingly strong shielding charm, an almost impermeable reflective screen that throws our newest opponents completely off balance, and causes a few to stumble back, finding most of their spellwork cast right back at them. I feel a small smile creeping up my mouth at the sight. Some of the wizards from the previous batch of assailants are recovering from their temporarily neutralizing spells, however, and I bring the Ignis stone from my pocket right into my hand, releasing a few fairly innocuous whips of flame their way, to keep them as a safe distance.

Tom's masterful use of our signature blending bond and his area of effect shield have me slightly distracted with pride, knowing well that, even though every version of him, in every timeline, has always been an exceedingly strong wizard and a brilliant, resourceful duelist... Well, this levelheaded, graceful skill he has acquired at such a shockingly young age is, in large part, due to our training together. He really is a pleasure to watch. And exactly due to that very distraction, I at first do not notice the characteristic flick of the wrist, the quiver of the elbow, and the robed man grinning wickedly at me as he casts the most despised of spells. When did I become such a bloody amateur?

The _Avada Kedavra_, known to be not only one of the most viciously powerful military spells to ever be invented, but also famous for its finality, and the almost absolute impossibility of reflecting or absorbing it, bypasses the defensive charm. My heart pounding, I dive to the ground the very last moment, only narrowly ducking the green jet that was otherwise centered right onto my chest.

_Thank bloody Merlin for my wartime experience and Quidditch honed reflexes, _I think to myself, taking a deep breath as I scramble to regain my positioning.

"_Stupefy_" I hear Albus roar angrily, his voice hoarse and unkind, and even without lifting my eyes yet, I know that the wizard who'd cast the curse my way will soon fall over with a blunt thud, paralysed.

And then...

Then I feel the most profoundly unsettling, soul-crushing, gut-clenching, crippling coldness. A horrid sensation; a malicious, seething chill seeping into me through the bond, a frigid, serene killing intent, merciless and void. My pulse spiking worriedly, I lift my eyes to see Tom Riddle, beautiful, still, silent, and overflowing with the most intense, most brutally cruel anger. It is rolling off him in invisible waves of motionless, icy-cold fury. His perfect face is blank, but his eyes...

_Oh, oh no._

He takes a few slow, deliberate steps towards our attackers, at least half of which are already in some way or another incapacitated, and they, too, must sense something disturbingly off about him, something more than simple violence, because they direct a whole bouquet of curses his way, panicked. He evades them all graciously, svelte and so perfectly composed.

"_Adflictus_" he mutters with a mocking light-heartedness than does not quite cover the sadistic pleasure he is finding. The terrible, unforgettable sound of human bones being crushed, one that forever haunts my war dreams, is accompanied by wails of pain and horror; but the boy does not bat a lash.

"_Occulum Perforatus" _Tom Riddle adds, matter-of-factly, as if simply making an observation, and near his feet an already rope-bound wizard screams in agony, blood spraying from brutal stabs into his eyes, before he collapses to a fetal position, quaking. Dumbledore, shaken by this expression of ruthless malignance, casts a simple non-verbal leglock towards the young sociopath. But Tom Riddle is on a roll, high on adrenaline, high on ire, high on power, and he deflects it with unnerving, mocking ease.

"Tom, don't!.. Enough!.." I begin, voice loud and firm. He ignores me completely.

The Italian wizards, or the few of them still able to fight, cast a new torrent of spells towards his menacing, approaching form. He evades them all once again, without even having to actively deflect a single one, nimble and focused. There is something really, deeply wrong about the sight of a boy like him, young and handsome, crushing grown men so comfortably. He is formidable, and he is absolutely horrific.

"_Osseum Expulso" _he growls with wild but subtle joy, and ankles, collarbones, jaws rip through nerve, muscle and skin, forced out of the bodies they belonged to amidst a symphony of howls and whimpers. Those who can still crawl away from the boy do so, and the rest twitch helplessly on the ground. A stray spray of blood finds the Slytherin on the face, crossing through his small, imperceptible almost, smirk, staining the horrifying symmetry and grace of his refined, marble beauty.

_What the fuck Harry, do something!_

I run towards the boy, and shout something his way, but he seems far still, and about to raise his wand again.

So then I do the only thing I can think of to restrain his destructive mania; I tap into the connection, drawing out as much magic as I can from him, as abruptly and roughly as I can, and I feel it flow into me, cool, angry and explosive, filling my chest and swirling furiously. Tom immediately stops dead on his tracks, and pales, as if punched in the gut, or as if someone just stole the air he had been breathing. Which, I suppose, must be what such a sudden, aggressively imposed magical exhaustion must feel like. I pull a little more, and he slowly falls on his knees, his breathing laboured from the artificial tiredness.

"Riddle..." I mumble awkwardly as I reach behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders. I am not sure whether it is his shoulders that are shaking a little, or my own hands. I count at least three or four dead, and as many gravely wounded. Blood stains the grass around us.

_He just killed at least three people._

_He just killed._

_At least three people._

_Even in his original timeline, he hadn't that much blood on his hand so... so soon._

_I'm fucking up. I'm making things worse. Bloody hell._

_Bloody hell._

I am not even sure what I am supposed to do or say. Comfort him, berate him, yell angrily? Slap him across the face? Hug him? Snap his wand? I momentarily let my gaze flick backwards, but Dumbledore is keeping a safe distance and I know he does not want to meddle in this particular battle.

_He just murdered at least three human beings._

_Holy goat of Ramses._

In the end, and to my ample surprise, it is the young student who breaks the silence. "You ducked the _Avada _by less than a inch, you know. It was quite the close call. You could have died. A matter of luck," he states, in an almost inappropriately factual, objective voice, as if that explains everything. I suppose, to him, it does; he really does not seem the slightest bit regretful. He probably feels his actions are completely justified. Truly, I don't believe that he is lying, implying that this absolutely loss of self-restraint was due to my close brush with death, and that suddenly forces me to confront a heap of questionable, conflicting feelings.

_I am enraged, and disappointed, and frustrated, and horrified... and yet I'm also guiltily, and to my own violent disgust, a tiny, little bit flattered. He saw red because I was almost hurt. He would crush underfoot anyone who'd raise a wand against me. He cares. Ha cares for me. Merlin, I'm repulsed, and I despise murder, and I hate what he's done, and yet... I'm pleased that at least that means he is truly attached to me._

_And that terrorizes me. How the flip am I suppose to teach the choice of morality to a fledgling Dark Lord when I, myself, am so deeply fucked up, and morally questionable?_

_These are human lives. Three people just died. At least three._

_As if you haven't killed dozens... _a vicious little voice observes, and it's true. _But never out of anything but necessity! Never like this. I..._

"Tom, listen to me. Don't do this, this indulgent, unnecessary violence, ever, ever, ever again. Never. Under no circumstances. Not to defend yourself, not for me, not ever. Never, ever use lethal force for pleasure or out of anger. Only use as much force as strictly necessary. Don't... don't ever do this. I'm angry with you. I'm very disappointed. I'm..."

"You and Albus could have taken them all down in seconds if you did not stick to bloody stunners and leglocks and disarming spells. You almost died because you refused to use lethal force."

"I dodged it. For hell's sake, I can handle myself! I've defeated a Voldemort with seventy something years of experience, I've lead entire battalions into battle against overwhelming odds. I could have managed them all by myself, believe me."

"Dodged it. By an inch, Harry! It was luck!"

"So said everyone year after year! Luck, luck, luck. And yet after countless wars I'm still here, very much alive, whole and strong, so no, Tom, it's not goddamn luck. I can handle myself. I have the reflexes, the spellwork, and I make the right choices! I win when all others lose. So you will listen to me, you little fiend. **You will never, ever again use more force than is strictly necessary,**" I command with as much forceful finality as I can find in me, and I violently clasp his chin, bringing it inches from my own face, and our eyes lock savagely. "Or Hecate help me, I will kill you, Tom."

He breathes out slowly, and voicelessly stares back at me for a while.

"You could have died," he finally repeats, insistent, but in a much smaller voice, and he glares down at his own blood red hands. He does not look sorry, not close, but he does look uncertain, and slightly lost. I warp my arms around him and internally, I almost cry at how dysfunctional we both are.

_I really, really need a glass of Firewhiskey._

_Or ten._

* * *

Exactly thirty-three hours later, Tom and I are sitting quietly inside my private Hogwarts quarters; he on the armchair, me on the sofa. Between his pallid, long fingers lies the second Elder Wand, and yet, strangely, he does not look too excited to be holding the twin of the supposedly most powerful wand in the whole wide world. Perhaps yesterday he had not seemed the slightest bit regretful about the murders he so light-heartedly committed, but since our return to the castle he has been strangely silent and introspective. Especially after talking to the one referred to as The Dreamer in certain circles, a young man named Mithras Lovegood. I can't say I was that surprised to find out Luna had had a real Seer in her bloodline.

I have no idea what was said between them, and frankly, I dare not ask, because I know Tom well enough by now to know when he does not wish to speak. In these cases, pushing the matter will only make him defensive and frigid, which will in no way help.

"So, will you give it to me? I have the other two," I finally ask, sipping a gulp of spirit.

"Is it really the wisest choice to keep them all together? If Grindelwald or Voldemort try anything, we'll be making it substantially easier for them," he argues, but I can tell he is not really adamant about keeping the wand, which truly surprises me. Just a few days ago, his crystalline gaze lit up at the mention of powerful artifacts, especially anything that could in any way help him attain immortality. Is the strange change in his outward behaviour due to the recent bloodbath, or was it something the young Seer told him? I simply have no idea, and it is making me feel rather helpless and uncomfortable.

"If you want to keep one, for security reasons, fine. But I'd rather you don't keep an Elder Wand. I can give you the cloak, if you want," I suggest in turn, and, unexpectedly, he almost immediately nods his voiceless agreement. He is acting way out of character, and it's beginning to frighten me.

"Tom, are you alright?"

"I don't know. Things are going to get bad quite soon, you know. And I am really not the slightest bit certain about... well, anything. I don't even trust myself. Here I'd made grand declarations about sincerely trying to change certain things about myself, and then..." His eyes flicker downwards, long, dark lashes casting shadows upon his gloriously smooth cheeks, and even though he does not seem to be experiencing any severe emotion of guilt, and I do believe his conscience is not yet ready to offer him something like that, he does seem genuinely uncomfortable with what happened back in Rome. " I mean, were attacked; I did not just go off shooting virulent curses at randomly chosen strangers. But Mithras said there will be a cusp soon. A "road to Damascus", if you will."

_Ah. That's it, then. He is actually frightened. That I can understand._

"Well, I still choose to trust you. After all, I did almost die, back there."

I hand him the cloak, and he gives me the Elder Wand. As our hands touch, I deliberately trail my fingers to caress his, and watch his nostrils flare the slightest bit. The look on his eyes when he lifts them to meet mine is not the kind of smug, assertive hunger I expect, however, but rather a strangely soft, haunted look. Just what did that Seer tell him? Still, he does tiptoe and reach out to kiss me, and this time I let him without any resistance, moral, physical, or otherwise, enjoying the sensation of his soft but cool lips against my own slightly chapped ones. His perfect hands roam my hair.

"Tom, are you actually alright?" I am sincerely quite concerned about how out of character he seems to be acting.

"I'm better _now_," he replies, and his cherubic face finally acquires the signature smirk, that small, arrogant, self-satisfied, audacious little curve that these days seems to provoke desire in me rather than unease, or resentment, or derision. Good. This is the sly, young, dissocial manipulator I know and, to my great misfortunate, seem irreversibly attached to on way too many levels.

"It will turn out alright, in the end. I'm pretty sure," I whisper into the dark curves of his lilac-sented hair, but he does not say anything. Instead, he shuts his eyes and gently pushes his entire person a little more against me.

* * *

Tom's PoV

_Voldemort does not die. I have seen many futures, you know. There isn't just one. There are many. Some hazier, further away, more unlikely; some stark, almost certain. Like the fact you would end up looking for the second Elder Wand. That I knew. So I kept it safe for you. I truly support your struggle, you know. You could be a brilliant leader, one day, and we need one. One like you._

_But let me not fool you. Not matter what you do, Voldemort does not die._

_Voldemort will always be there._

_That you cannot change._

Lovegood's cryptic words echo in my mind ominously for the thousandth time today, and, as I lie still, fully awake, and wide-eyed in my bed, my only comfort is the familiar, glossy softness of Nagini's serpentine body as she slithers up against my torso to sooth me.


End file.
